


But When I Get Home To You

by sherlocked221



Series: Though Not In Heat-I'm Hot for You [5]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Ringo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hamburg Era, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, References to Knotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: It's 1960 and The Beatles are in Hamburg,Rory Storm and the Hurricanes finish their time at Butlins, so they go to Hamburg to help out too.This delights secret Omega George, because he gets to see his crush, Ringo, again after several months of being apart.Meanwhile, Paul becomes jealous when Stuart Sutcliffe's announced departure from the band leaves John pissed off and wanting to get back at his friend while he's still around.(I just realised that George, in some places, might be considered as Underage... the warning is now up.)





	1. George

The deep, blue, velvet curtains hiding the wings behind the stage flap softly as we each pass through them, minding the tall, glass bottle of beer, half drunk, that sits in the narrow passageway, just far enough away from the wall for it to potentially be knocked over. Of course, with us five uncoordinated, perhaps slightly high, members of a band, one of us is bound to kick it as we stumble our way past.

We’re all expecting the clink of the rounded glass and the barely audible chug sound as the golden, warm liquid from inside spills out the tiny neck, to the point it’s actually satisfying to hear.

It had to be John, the great sod who’d been having his own little party on stage, dancing as if he were one of the audience, obscuring his awful dance moves with the crowds of people. Unfortunately, he was not. He was out in the open. Everyone could see the flail of his arms in the air, the awkward steps and kicks and jumps that threatened to break the stage. It was… well, I’d say embarrassing, but I was too out of it to really take my notice.

One thing I’d learnt while over here- the drinks are stronger. I’ll try to pace myself next time.

“Sorry, sorry.” John slurs to whoever is behind him, if anyone even is. He bends down to prop the bottle back up, but ends up planted firmly on his butt, laughing like a maniac. Paul slips past me and Pete to go and help him.

I shake my head. It’s been pretty crazy here. We’re no longer the five Liverpudlian teddy boys, playing our Buddy Holly and our Elvis between trips into school. We’ve had to grow out of that pretty quickly. This isn’t the familiar residential streets of Liverpool. There isn’t any Penny Lane or those Strawberry Fields that John keeps going on about every time he talks about being at home.

No, this is Hamburg. This is rough and unfriendly. We’re right in the centre of a red light district, the kind of place you hear about, but never really see. But we’ve seen it. We’ve seen those working girls, dressed in their very tight mini-skirts and pretending to hide their tarty underwear that they’ll hope will get them a little tip from their customers. We’ve hung around at the clubs and bars, drinking copious amounts of alcohol until we’re all leaning off one another as we walk. We’ve tried whatever drug is the latest fad, which ever will knock out our senses for a couple of hours. We’ve swapped our plaid, button-up shirts and long trench coats for tight leather trousers, boots and jackets. We almost look like we belong here.

We look pretty cool sitting in the sticky, smoke polluted wings backstage, taking out a cigarette each as we contemplate either going back to the cramped hotel room for a well-deserved sleep, or staying out a little longer.

“I’m already too… fucking stoned.” John mutters, plonking himself on a grotty, torn armchair that looks as though it has been tossed out the window several times over.

Paul, who leans close by him against the wall, lets out a long, dragon’s breath of smoke as he nods, “I’m too knackered. Let’s just get out of here.” He looks around at the remaining three of us, Stu, who is curled up on one patch of the floor that is not sticky from mounds of days-old drinks spilt over it, Pete, who is perched on a wooden, rotting chair probably once resembling those from the bar, but has long lost its place there, and me. I’m leaning on the doorway by which we’d exited the stage. Quite happy to leave, since I feel like my legs might give way at any moment, I begin to walk out the back stage door, directly opposite where I had been standing. John, Paul and Stu all file out before I get there, with me and Pete heading out in our own, slightly slower time.

Outside, night has purpled the sky, as well as everywhere else that doesn’t have warm orange lights blaring into the darkness. A soft breeze blows past us, which is deathly cold. I watch as all of us have the same immediate reaction- we pull our jackets further around us, not zipping them up, just holding the two sides tight in one clenched hand, every so often pulling the collars up to keep our necks warm.

“This is fucking it, boys!” John yells, looking a lot less concerned about the cold than all of us. He strides forward, chest puffed out, one free hand swaying by his side. He has a wide, stupid smile on his face, burning brighter than any of the street lamps or lights from buildings. I see Paul, who is walking on my left, staring at him, gazing at him will all the love you can ever convey through one look. His dark eyes sparkle.

“It’s nice to see him happy.” Paul mutters to me, leaning in a bit, “And away from…” He gestures at the tall frame of Stu, walking slightly behind us. I’ve noticed that Paul is a bit jealous of Stu. John and Paul may be mated, but there is no lack of possessiveness or worry on either side. They both have their suspicious and envy. John says his is worse. He hates seeing Paul with any girl, starts proper bust ups with anyone for no other reason other than being angry, and maybe a little for attention. But Paul is pretty bad too. He may not get pissed off every time John says anything remotely sexual to someone, but he fixates on people that he believes John really likes.

Stu, unfortunately, is one of those people. John begged him, despite him not being a very skilled bassist, to come with us to Hamburg. He just wanted Stu around. That didn’t sit well with Paul.

“You look very happy too.” I observe. Paul has these sweet, full lips that, when stretched into a smile, makes him look very handsome. I see everything that John sees in him.

“I am. He makes me happy, you know.” He replies, speaking a little louder as though he’s trying to make Stu hear. I sigh. As long as he’s happy. Both of them. I wish I had what they do. A partner, a lover, an Alpha.

Oh no! Why did I have to think about it? My mind is very vulnerable. It doesn’t remember not to think of things, the guards that I have put up around certain subjects have broken down, letting ideas of Alphas slip through my thoughts, ideas of love and relationships and kissing, hugging, knotting.

And they all link to Ringo. I miss him. I haven’t seen him in a few months now. He’s off with his own band, doing their job like we’re doing ours, though their placement is a little tamer. Butlins compared to back-alley gigs in the red-light district of Hamburg.

I hope he’s doing ok and that we’ll all be back at the Cavern soon enough, playing in each other’s bands and hanging out as friends.

Oh, I don’t like him. I don’t fancy him. That’s what everyone thinks. But everyone also thinks I’m a Beta, so I just have to keep reminding myself how wrong they are about me. It should comfort me. It doesn’t, but I won’t stop telling myself. If there is any infatuation I have with Ringo- which there isn’t- I’m sure it’s just due to him being an Alpha and I, as an Omega, am drawn to him without a choice. My biological structure tells me that I should be mated, and the closest unmated Alpha I know is Ringo.

I attempt to distract myself.

“I’m so fucking tired!” I groan.

“Aren’t we all?” Pete chimes in, dragging his feet on the pavement.

“Fuck off!” John yells from in front. He turns around to face us, walking backwards. This can’t end well, can it? He barely looks where he’s going when he walks forward, never mind taking away the capacity to be aware of where he’s walking by facing the wrong way. “You get to do shit, sitting behind your drum kit, while us lot are standing up the whole bloody time.” Thank God he spins back around.

“Alright, but you lot try and drum for 4 hours straight. By the end of this trip, I better have arms the size of footballs.” Pete whines.

Quiet Stu finally decides to join the conversation, “Won’t help you get any girls.” For a man of few words, those that he chooses to say are perfect. All of us double over in giggles.

The hotel looks like some eerie stack of apartment buildings, long abandoned by their inhabitants. The only sign that tells a story other than that is the small plaque hanging above the main door. It swings in the wind, squeaking and echoing down the road. We let ourselves in and begin to pile up the stairs to our room. Before we can all make it onto the stairwell though, one of the owners glides through the corridor to us, calling, “Mr Lennon. Is any of you Mr Lennon?”

John puts his hand up with so much enthusiasm that he almost falls down a few steps. He grasps hold of the banister. “That would be me.”

“Someone called for you, Mr Lennon. A Mr Storm. He said if you could call him back.”

We all exchange looks. Mr Storm must be Rory, our friend and fellow musician. He’s in a band with Ringo, he’s the front man. We all are regular entertainment at the Cavern, and we all fill in for each other if someone can’t make it.

And when Ringo plays in our band, that’s when it feels like… this is it, this is the Beatles.

“Can I use your phone?” John asks, plodding back down the steps. The owner nods and takes him into her office. We’re all left to make our way to the room on our own.

“D’you think they’re coming down?” Pete queries. Thank god he asked so I didn’t have to.

“Maybe. They said they would when they finished their shit at Butlins.” Stu replies as he sticks our room key in the door. He unlocks it and swings it open.

Ah, our smelly, cramped, pig-sty home away from home.


	2. Ringo

“R-Richie, will you… speak…”

Four of us stand around a smashed up, old telephone booth, while Rory picks up the receiver and places a coin or two into the slot on his left. Every glass panel in the booth is either missing or cracked, spider web patterns creeping away from wherever the impact that caused it to shatter had originated.

This feels very uncomfortable. I’ve been used to the family atmosphere. There is a lot more of that in Butlins. Not a hell of a lot, but enough for them to ask that we keep our performances mostly family friendly. This place feels more like a horror movie or a gangster flick. It’s rough and unfriendly. There are people that walk by us, giving us strange sideways glances. Among them are high-heeled wearing women in skirts so high their thighs bristle with goosebumps and button-up shirts so low, their breasts are practically popping out from them. Their faces are painted with bright reds or pinks and they give alluring stares to any man who happens to look their way.

I try my best not to look at them at all.

We all stayed huddled close together as we waited for an operator on the phone to speak. I swapped places with Rory, as he couldn’t stand being on the phone- he had a real consciousness of his stutter- and thought it best if someone who was a bit more confident spoke instead.

A woman’s voice came through, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“Hello? Hello? Do you speak English?” I try, shamefully doing the age-old English thing of shouting louder at someone, thinking that it will help them understand what you’re saying. The woman continues speaking German, saying the same phrase again and again.  

“Please! We’re looking for…” I desperately cry at her, but she gets louder. Fucking hell, what am I supposed to do?

We were just dropped here, on the side of this street. Our driver had gone before we could ask where this bloody hotel was. We’d told him the name of it and he seemed to understand. Yet here we are, lost and cold, holding our jackets close to our bodies and yanking suitcases behind us with as much effort as we can muster, seeing as we’ve been traveling for the majority of today. We looked around at street signs and signs on doors, but we can’t find anything other than a club a ways down the road and small flat-like buildings lining the apparently residential street.

Finally, I try saying the name of the hotel we’re meant to be staying at. The Operator pauses in her frustrated screams to put me though, I think. The phone seems to go dead for a moment, before someone else picks up, someone else speaking German. I feel bad that I’m so ignorant and lazy, a typical English boy who can’t nor will ever attempt speaking another language.

Wearily, I plead, “Do you speak English?”

“A little.” Barks the voice on the other side. Well, at least they are straight to the point.

“Well, we have a booking, but we can’t find the hotel. Can you tell me what it looks like?”

“There’s a sign on the outside of the building which says our name. There are steps going up to the front door. It looks a bit like a house or… what do you-“

Lou has legged it down the road, calling at us, “It’s here, I got it!” The other three band members go to follow him. Rory looks at me, telling me to come as well.

“It’s ok, we’ve found it. Thank you.”

The person puts the phone down without so much as a goodbye. Seems like a lovely place, this. I hurry to catch up with my friends, not really wanting to be out here on my own.

The hotel steps are slippery and chipped to the point that you really have to watch where you walk. Through the narrow front door, there is an equally as small reception room that struggles to house all five of us as well as the woman operating the desk in front of us. Ty stands on the stairs that probably lead up to the rooms, to give us all some more space.

“Hi,” Johnny takes the leading role here, “We have a booking for a room, two beds.”

The receptionist opens up a book on her desk, but her eyes stay on us. She scans each of our faces, our clothes, our body language. I hope she can tell how tired we are and how much we’d really like to speed this process up so that we can get up to bed. I’m so ready to sleep. Since I’m next to a wall, I lean most of my body weight onto it, having my suitcase to rest one of my legs on.

“What are you all, more musicians?” She hisses, peering up at us as she flips the pages of that book beneath her hands.

“Yeah, why?”

“We’ve already had a load of you lot in. They’ve been around for months.”

I scramble to the front of the small crowd we make by her desk, “The Beatles?”

“I don’t know. I think they’re in, though.” She turns around and unhooks a key from the rows of them behind her. When she gives it to Johnny, she keeps her hand on it, pointing at the number, “You are room 10. If you want that other group, they’re room 7, on the floor below you.”

One by one, we head towards the stairs, with Lou declaring angrily, “I’m tired! I want to fucking sleep. This shit never stops, does it?”

“T-then go to sleep.” Rory snaps. Lou decides to shut up for the rest of the journey to our room. We get to the third floor where I spot room 7. If they’re in, I have to say hi.

“Guys, I’m going to see if the Beatles are in.” I walk along the corridor so that Rory and Lou can get past. “Don’t want to come with me?”

“We’ll see them in the morning. They’re probably asleep by now.”

I shrug my shoulders, “I’m going to see them.” They all leave me, stood on my own on the tiny floor. There are three doors so close together I can’t understand how there are rooms behind them.

I feel quite excited. I haven’t seen the Beatles in far too long. I haven’t talked to George in a long time. That’s not all I care about, but it is the first thing that pops into my head. I remind myself that I don’t have a crush on him. I have to remind myself every time I see him.

Knocking gingerly on the 7th door, I think about the last time I saw the Beatles. It was at the Cavern. I was standing in for Pete. John was complaining that Pete was unreliable, that he’s gone sick _again_ , even though he doubted he was actually sick. He said how much he preferred me to Pete. I felt bad. He just wanted to talk smack about his close friend. I really didn’t want to get between that.

It takes a moment for anyone to answer. When someone does, a layer of smoke escapes the room. I see Paul, Stu, John and Pete all with cigarettes either in their mouths or fingers. The former three lie on the bed on the left, Paul laying with his head on John’s crossed legs while Stu is lying with his back against the wall and long legs swung off the edge of the mattress. Pete is on the other bed, lying back and legs running up the wall, one bent over the other. Then I see George peek around the door. When he sees me, his eyes widen.

“Alright Richie?” He chirps.

“Georgie!” I spread my arms, offering a hug, sort of as a joke, a serious joke… a mocking hug? Basically, I want a hug, but I play it as a joke. He looks back at his mates who are grinning forward, watching him closely for some reason. He ignores them, rolling his eyes, then wrapping his arms around me, quickly. A chorus of ‘ooooooo’s’ come from inside the room. Immediately, George presents his middle finger at them all, before locking back at me and suggesting that I come in.

“Hello, you lot,” I say, “You got one of ‘em for me?” I gesture at a cigarette. George comes up behind me, taking the one out of his mouth and handing it to me. I take a long drag of it. My mind wants to think something dirty about the cigarette, but I decide against it. I sit down on the bed that’s already inhabited with Pete. George joins me.

“How was it then? Butlins, I mean,” Paul asks.

“Good. It was good. Almost classy, y’know. Almost. Everyone had to get all dressed up for dinner, that sort of thing.”

“It’s a bit different here.” John giggles.

“Yeah, how’s it been?”

“Cramped, too hot and tiring.” Stu buts in.

John slaps him, probably too hard, because he shies away, “He wasn’t talking about the room, you fucker.” John laughs harder. Stu makes a face at him.

“It’s been fun, very different from Liverpool. We were all a bit surprised.” Paul picks up where everyone else left off to joke about.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I joke.

We all compare our months in our separate places. I help George finish his cigarette. It’s probably morning by now and I’m knackered. I’ve no idea how, if these lot have been working all day, they are so hyper at night. I really want to sleep, but I don’t want to leave.

“I guess I should head up.” I reluctantly say, dragging myself up off the mattress where George has been lying behind me and Pete has been curled up by the head board.

“Oh, you don’t have to leave.” Paul suddenly has his hand out to stop me from going. He’s not really making much of an effort, just fort of leaning forward, stretching out for me. “I don’t think George wants you to.”

George hisses at Paul, who giggles.

“I should go. There’s nowhere to sleep.” I really want to stay, but I don’t want to make out as though I do. Best not to look too desperate.

“We’re manging 3 in one bed. 3 in both isn’t so bad.” Paul counters.

I look down at Pete and George, asking with my eyes if they mind. Pete shrugs his shoulders, while George nods, at first quite definitely, then a little softer.

“Well, if none of you mind.”


	3. Paul

Morning creeps into the room, soaking into our beds and lighting the six people, all fitting somehow into two, creaking, single beds. I prop myself up on my elbow, careful not to wake John, who’s softly sleeping on his back right next to me. His handsome, mature face is overcome with bliss, absolute, genuine peace, the likes I have rarely seen when he is awake. Hoping it won’t stir him, I lean down to kiss him on those pair of tasty lips.

When I pull away from his gorgeous taste, it takes me a few relapses before I can properly tear myself away, I look around the room that’s glowing in the sun’s soft, morning beams, tossed in through the window. I see John, soundly sleeping next to me and I see Stu on his side, hanging off the edge of our bed.

I don’t really like that Stu sleeps in our bed, least of all the fact he sleeps next to John. Still, it makes John happy. Happier than I should, I could say…

But I won’t, because I’m a good, content, confident Omega who knows that his Alpha loves him, not anyone else.

In the next bed, I see Ringo on the edge, facing away from me. I know it’s him, I know the back of his head quiet well, and the way he sleeps with his entire body wrapped around someone else’s. I’m sure George, who I’m sure is next to him as I cannot see anyone other than Pete, right at the end, and George has a tiny, little, skinny, sweet body, is quite happy to be the recipient of Ringo’s hugs. I’d tease him if he were awake to hear it, or if anyone else was.

I sit, alone in the morning, wondering what time it is and whether I should get up. I really need a shower, but I don’t trust the bath basin that I’d have to stand in to have one, partly due to it appearing as though it’ll crack under my weight, partly because I don’t trust that it hasn’t got all manners of filth caked in layers on its grey surface. Even the fact that it is grey unsettles me. It must’ve once been white. What is it that gives it a darker tone? And are the streaks in it meant to be there? I think not.

I think a shower is out of the question. I’ve thought that since the first night we arrived here. I probably smell like shit, having sweated through much of my clothes at every gig we’ve done, only being able to have a wash when the water, spilling sporadically from the sink in the bathroom, doesn’t have that misty, green tinge.

Eh, I disgust myself thinking about the filth we’ve lived in for what seems to be two months. It’s felt like longer, like we’d started out here, the Quarrymen, the covers of Buddy Holly songs, our rendition of Maggie Mae. But those were far more innocent times. I look again on John and think how much we’ve changed.

He was the hot-headed, bad Teddy Boy getting chucked out of school or fucking girls in the school loos. He fought with every member of the Quarrymen he took a disliking to, just so he could remove them from the band, because those were the rules, you fight, you leave. He had an interest in rock and roll, but it was overpowered with his love of girls, smoking, drinking and partying.

Meanwhile, I was the _nice_ boy. Christ, I hate being known as that. Is there not anything else I could be known for other than being _nice?_ But I was good in school, reasonably smart according to some. I was the perfectionist boy who was writing songs by the age of 12 that were hits amongst my family. I was shown off to everyone. Then I met John and I was that boy who looked far too young to be in a rock and roll band, yet I rocked the stage, John and I both did.

Now, we’re proper, hardened men- well, still immature teenagers, but slightly toughened up. We play in the rough holes of Hamburg, improvising loud, raucous songs that have 20 different solos that last 20 minutes each. We wear leather. We drink proper German alcohol. We make eyes at the prostitutes, just because we can.

Well, I say all of this, that we have become _real men_ , only to be pretty much disproved by the sight of Ringo, still asleep, turning onto his other side, facing my way, and George following him, swinging his top leg over Ringo’s waist.

Oh yeah, proper manly men who love to cuddle.

I laugh. I like cuddles. Who doesn’t? I curl up against John, kissing his neck on the way down to resting my head on his chest.

Half an hour of dazing and, soon, I’m not the only one up. I hear a snort from the other bed, followed by Ringo and George politely apologising for being attached at the hip to one another.

“Oh, don’t worry.” I say, startling them both. In my peripheral vision, I see John squeeze his eyes shut, trying to block out the morning. He’s probably horribly hung over. “You two looked very cute together, all cuddled up. You’d make a great couple, if Georgie wasn’t a stubborn Beta.”

They both scoff. They really do seem sweet together, George with his quiet, mysterious way about him paired to Ringo’s outgoing, confidence and unconditional love for all his friends.

If only the two weren’t so uselessly placed into incompatible biological groups. Fuck their parents for birthing them wrong. I laugh to myself.

John slowly wakes. I kiss him on the forehead, then keep my lips against him as I say, “Good Morning.”

John mumbles something inaudible.

“What?” I sweetly ask.

“Fuck off.”

Well, so much for being nice. I smack John on the arm.

Stu’s voice comes from the other end of the bed, “Will you two fucking love birds take your lover’s tiffs elsewhere when I’m trying to sleep.”

John swiftly kicks him so that he almost falls out of the bed. The space between the two beds is so narrow that Stu catches himself on the other mattress, pushing his sleep-heavy body back into a comfortable position. The only person who isn’t awake now is Pete. He snores behind George. George is sitting up behind Ringo, groggily wiping his eyes with his fists and fixing his messy hair. Ringo, at one point, reaches up to tuck a strand back with the rest of George’s hair. I whistle, cheekily.

“Oh, I’ve probably got to go and see the other lot.” Ringo changes the subject. John turns around onto his front, burying his head under the overly soft set of three pillows. Poor Stu hasn’t even got one. He rests his head on the mattress or hard wooden frame at the foot.

“They all came down, then?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, of course they did. We all finished in Butlins, packed our stuff again and came straight here. They all said they’d see you this morning. Is there a place you get breakfast?”

George shoots a look at me. None of us have eaten breakfast since we got here. “Don’t know of anywhere, but we might be able to have a scout around. If you lot want to.” I suggest.

Ringo smiles, heaving himself out of the bed. George steals the covers that follow him back onto his scrawny body in a selfish act of self-warmth. “I’ll go and ask them. They’re probably not awake yet. Long day traveling yesterday.”

“A long day is nothing,” I laugh, “You haven’t had a long night until you’ve been here, you know.”


	4. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I read an article which said that John was very offensive on stage at Hamburg, referencing Nazis, imitating them and things like that, so I did make reference to John's antics, which might be seen as offensive. I really have only mentioned it, but I am so worried that I might offend people. Please note this warning in case this is something you might find uncomfortable.~
> 
> Also, I have no idea about what being at Hamburg was like, but this is fiction, isn't it?

“Breakfast? The kid wants breakfast. They’ve all gone soft working over there.” I say once Ringo is out the door. My face is buried in waves of stinking pillows. We’ve sleep in this room since we got here, perhaps it’s now time to get the cleaners in while we’re at a gig. I’ll suggest it, if I remember.

“Or we got tough.” I hear George propose. I scoff at him.

There are warm hands running over my back. They follow my spine, fondly rub my shoulders. Paul is so gentle in the morning. I, when I’ve got some strength, turn onto my back and reach up for a kiss. Christ, my head swims, aching as though someone were drilling into it. A few too many beers last night, I think, but boy was it (the bits that I remember) fun. I fall back onto the pillows, bringing Paul’s lips with me. He lies on my chest, legs either side of mine. I move up so that Stu has more space on his side. We should sleep like this, though I can feel my knot swelling with just the weight of Paul baring down on me. I probably wouldn’t sleep well in this position. Of course, Stu probably would, because his body would actually be on the bed, rather than hanging off the whole time.

“Will you two fucking queers stop with all your shit, please. I just woke up, I don’t want to throw up.” Pete’s laughing tone reaches us from behind George. Now he’s awake. Great. That means we’re probably going to have to get up soon. I pull Paul so that he’s closer to me. I have this delusion that having Paul on top of me might be a good excuse as to why I can’t get up, that’s if I can convince him to stay. He’ll probably be the one who tells everyone else to get off their fat arses. And I can’t exactly drag Stu onto my chest and say that I can’t get up for that reason. I’m pretty sure Paul would kill me.

“Look, you fucking shut up, you Beta dick.” I shout back at Pete. He was only joking, but my reply comes out a bit more pissed off than I meant. Still, it shuts him up.

“C’mon you lot, I think it’s time we got up before Ringo and the rest of ‘em beat us to it.” Paul, as I suspected, demands. Groggily, each of us roll out of bed, dibbing the shower with hasty words. It’s Pete who wins it first, striding into the disgusting bathroom with pride. Trust me, he is no better off getting it first than not going in there at all. It’s proper grotty. The whole room is, but that bathroom, with its pissed-on toilet seat and shat on sink basin. You’d go in there for a shower and come out dirtier than you had been before. I’m happier to drag on yesterday’s alcohol drenched clothes, hoping that the tasty chemicals I probably drunk last night would keep me clean enough. I go for my pair of leather trousers, a black turtle neck and an old jacket to go over it.

“Wash day, I think, boys!” Paul comments, looking at some of his trousers, holding them at an arm’s length.

I cheekily throw him some of the stuff I need washing that was piled up on the narrow strip of visible floor. “Well, if your washing your stuff…”

“I’m not that kind of Omega.” Paul counters. Fair enough. He never has been. I’ve never wanted him to be that stay at home, useless little fuck-toy.

Then again, I really want my clothes cleaned. I widen my eyes, pout my lips. Stu ruins the look by asking for something sitting on the tiny bedside table, but I manage to gaze at Paul with puppy dog eyes as I pass that pen or whatever it is- I don’t even look down at it to know- over to Stu. He sighs when it’s the wrong thing, and leans over me to grasp his pair of sunglasses.

“Would you, Paulie?” I beg.

“I’m going to take some of my clothes down, Paul,” George butts in, “So we could both do it.”

I smile at our youngest friend, “Half for you, half for your little mate, not so much work and a very happy John, what do you say, my lovely Paulie?”

Paul scowls at me, before conceding “I say you’re a fucking user, but of course I’ll clean your shit.”

Pete comes out the shower and, like clockwork, Stu goes in. George declares that he’s next, while Paul criticises him for wanting to lean himself in an atrocity like that bathroom.

“Oh, we’re doing some washing today, Pete. Anything you want us to take?” George asks quietly. Pete gives him a whole bag and tells him that our towels need doing too, making a comment about the fact that the hotel cleaners should technically do it, but the likelihood of them doing it any time soon is minimal.

When Stu comes out, clad only in a towel from the waist down, his caramel brown hair stuck to his forehead and chest dotted with droplets of water, George goes in, excusing himself for a pee to keep Paul quiet, though he actually turns on the shower, despite Paul’s discouragement.

I wish Paul would go in the shower. He has once or twice since he’s got here (he’s doing better than me) and I’m not saying it because he smells, or because there might be a distinct layer of grim over his perfect skin. I’m saying this because I’d love to see him stride through the toilet doorway, dressed in one of the towels, while drying his hair with one of the smaller ones. Fuck, he’d look beautiful, all stripped down and wet.

But he will probably only step into that bath once he’s cleaned it all with an old toothbrush.

Once we’re all showered and dressed, we call up to the room containing Rory Storm and The Hurricanes, inviting them to breakfast. We giggle as silently as possible as we convince them all that we know a great place for food, ‘Oh yeah, it’s just down the block, with pancakes and full Englishs and eggs and all that stuff.’ We have no idea where we’ll take them, that’s the funniest thing,f or some reason.

We greet them lot with hugs and familiar handshakes outside the hotel, because we could not all fit on one single floor of it. We need some kind of space to breathe, to talk, refamiliarize ourselves with our mates.

“So,” Johnny begins, standing on the curb of the road, hands in pockets, looking like a proper rocker. He’s hungry and looking for a place to eat. I doubt he bought our hospitable act of ‘we’ll take you to the best places we know.’ He’s not they type who’ll just follow. If we don’t show him somewhere for breakfast, he’ll find his own place, “Where are we going?”

“Oh,” I take over here, “Just down this road. Ah, you’re going to love it, absolutely love it.” I hear Pete and George laugh behind me, followed by Ringo, who asks ‘what?’ I don’t know why I’m having so much fun, leading two bands off into the unknown.

We skulk around streets that are pretty deserted, explaining to our newcomer friends that they are alight at night, girls with their services willing to be given on every corner. We point out every club we play in, telling them which ones we like, which ones they’ll be playing at too. We, or at least I, hope that we can keep them walking for long enough to forget about breakfast, but even my stomach is rumbling as it usually does around this time of the morning. The thing is, we’re sometimes get hungry, but are too busy- or lazy- to find something to eat. Our friends will get it soon enough, when we have to hurry to club after club to set up for our evening gigs, or to random bars that are open early to play at lunchtime shows, whatever we can get ourselves into.

Eventually, Ringo points out a small café type place. It looks as though it sells sandwiches, finger food, the type of stuff we might recognise. I pretend that it was what I was looking for the whole time, stalking up to the front door, confidently. I am meet with a chorus of ‘yeah rights.’ It was worth a try.

“So, w-hat h…have we got… on t-tonight?” Rory asks while we’re all chomping on slices of toast.

Paul replies, having memorised our bookings as though they were our timetable for school, “We’ve got the usual gig at the Star-Club. It’s always a good one.”

“Well, not always…” George trails off.

“W-why not?” Rory senses a story here, turning the corners of his lips up, knowingly.

We all look down at our glasses of water or juice, smiles unable to be hidden as we recount the few situations we’d come across at the Star in our heads. I peer up at my four bandmates, wishing one of them would pick a story to tell, but they all continue to look like maniacs, laughing at their drinks.

“We’ve got pretty drunk there a few times, no surprises there.” I begin, “And being on stage, I get this…” I don’t know how to explain it, “…this high, a rush of adrenaline and I may have acted like a bit of a… dick a few times.”

“What’s new?” Lou quips. I go to hit him, but play it off as a joke, the fucking dick.

“I may or may not have made a couple of… Nazi references.” I whisper. The other 9 of my companions look around to see if anyone else heard that. My bandmates shudder. Yes… I’m not proud of it, not really, it was stupid. I could’ve been arrested or something, if not murdered.

“Seriously?” Ty hisses.

I nod, trying not to smirk. Ok, I am proud that I got away with it, I’ll be honest, but of what I said, that was wrong. I am sorry about that.

“So, what happened?” Inquires horrified-looking Ringo.

“Well, none of the audience heard anything because the PA system was shit.”

“Thank fuck.” Paul adds, “I’m serious, you can’t take this dick anywhere.”

“No?” I say in a higher than average voice, shaking my head mockingly. “Why, what do I do?” I reach down and squeeze that tight little arse of his. He squeals and smacks me away, thankful that we’re by the wall and no one other than our group of friends could see.

“I-I can’t wait to… see this place.” Rory changes the subject, much to the pleasure of Paul, who immediately casts his attention onto him, while giving me an extra kick under the table.

“If you like rocking out, it’s the perfect place. And they’re gonna love you, Rory.” Paul assures.

For a boy so shy and uncomfortable because of his stutter, he’s a fucking wonder on stage. Sometimes, I wish I had his charisma and charm, his athletic build or stage presence. His stamina matches and outperforms mine. He’s a proper cool act, even if he doesn’t write his own stuff. The only people that do are me and my little Paulie.

I’m quite excited for tonight, as this is the game changer. Hamburg: Make or break.


	5. Ringo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ringo's first night at the Star Club.

Music blasts my eardrums to burst.

Chatter makes the lyrics obsolete.

The beat keeps people’s heads banging.

Drinks keep them dancing like no one can see them.

This is a proper rocking club, full of people who… well, must be deaf, but I guess they don’t need to hear anything, the music vibrates up through the floor causing their bodies to move, swinging around the dance floor, taking girls by the hands or beckoning boys over with stunning looks. If ever there is a moment when the music isn’t shaking the whole room, I feel as though the world has stopped spinning, my legs have become so used to the constant movement.

I’ve now tried my hand at being on stage for around an hour and I am still not used to such an audience. The louder we rock, the more they cheer for us, begging for the next song. Every tune seems to spill onto the next until we’re not really playing covers anymore, we’re creating our own sound.

And it’s so great when we each get a solo. Rory spins around to look at me and I know in that moment that it’s ‘Starr Time.’ He used to call it that back at the Cavern. It was my moment in the spotlight. In the Cavern, it meant it was time for me to take up lead vocals. Here, it means that I have to go crazy on the drums until I can find some way back onto the original beat. I watch as the audience respond beautifully to the rhythm, hitting all the accents of the song with their bodies. It’s a wonderful thing, seeing people enjoy your music.

Johnny shines on guitar on his solo. Rory woos the girls with winks and flawlessly energetic stage presence. We are a real cool band that, if I have another few drinks, could go all night, ripping existing riffs apart and making up words as we go along, but, for now, we have left the stage to have a rest, swapping out with the Beatles who get a cheer when we announce them. Most of the people here have already heard them. They’ve gained a bit of a following, both girls and boys.

Which is a new phenomenon for us, having both guys and girls liking our stuff. Back in Liverpool, in the clubs around there, we were liked mostly by girls who got hot over Elvis. All the boys wanted was to beat us, to start their own skiffle bands and play the greatest hits better than everyone else, as well as getting all the girls that usually ran to us. Here, the guys love the sound of the music, they cheer for us, they dance, they’re cool. I do like being here, and it’s barely been one day.

We file off stage into the wings, catching the last of the Beatles as they go out.

“Fun?” George asks me, placing his hand on my arm.

On a high, it barely registers that he’s talking to me… or touching me. When I do realise, his warm touch is long gone. I shout back at him before he’s enveloped by the curtain onto the stage, “It was great!”

The last I see of him is a smile across his youthful face. I keep looking out onto the stage, even though I can no longer see him. The smile is imprinted in my mind.

All this alcohol seems to have weakened my ability to ignore my… not crush… but that warm feeling creeping into my chest whenever I see George. I smile stupidly, gazing at nothing, not really seeing anything.

The next thing I’m aware of is Lou walking up to me and thrusting a bottle of beer into my hand. I thank him with a nod, sipping at the cold, open rim. I feel almost immediately dizzy with the strong taste. I need to sit down.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Rory’s saying as I take up residence on an old arm chair. The fuck happened to this thing? It looks like several cats have scratched it from the inside out. I ignore the uncomfortable feeling of the pillow below me and distract myself by listening to my bandmates, many of them are slurring their words, leaning in and swaying a little as the German drinks take an unsteady hold of them.

“Great audience. They make you want to go back for more.” Ty enthuses between drags of his cigarette.

“And the songs, we sound better than we ever have,” Johnny adds.

Rory doesn’t look too pleased at that, “But you all keep changing the songs. We can’t do that, or people won’t know what we’re playing. Or who we’re playing.”

The other three boys give him an odd look, “What do you mean? They don’t give a fuck. They probably don’t even know half of the songs.”

“But we can’t improve on these ones that are already out there. It’s just wrong.” Rory insists. I don’t get it either. All four of us exchange confused glances.

“But the Beatles are doing it and if the audience loves it, what’s wrong about that?”

“Just because the Beatles do it, doesn’t mean that we have to follow.” Rory’s practically shouting. We shush him, even though there is no way the Beatles will hear it. I guess we do it out of courtesy. He can’t seriously mean these things. “Remember, we’re bigger than them, we’re going to be famous, not them.”

One thing about Rory is that, when he’s drunk, he may be more confident, may be better with his stutter and talking to people, but he is rude offensive and careless. The rest of the band swing back into our seats, enjoying our drinks or cigarette, ignoring Rory’s outburst. We all like the Beatles whether they’re smaller than us, or do better than us, or whatever. We’ve helped them, they’ve helped us. Has Rory forgotten that?

I sip more of my drink hoping that I might forget Rory’s rant.

I just can’t wait to go back on stage, even if Rory has chastised us, forcing us to play through a song properly, with minimal embellishments. We still get our solos, but we all are too worried that we might upset Rory again that we keep them short, to the point, quiet and simple. He sings the lyrics mostly right until he’s too drunk to remember them.

When we return to backstage, the Beatles are sitting around in a circle, each smoking a cigarette, handing around a single bottle of beer which they all yell at John for drinking too much of. They smile up at us when they hear us walk in. Most of us are talking about how great the performance was.

“It’s proper amazing out there, isn’t it?” Paul says, offering his cigarette to anyone that walks by him or sits close. Ty takes it, having a small drag while nodding a thank you.

“Seems like this season is going to be fucking great!” Johnny exclaims.

Everyone’s talking so much that I only pick up on a few conversations here and there. I’m also too incoherent to join in. This alcohol is fucking strong, but I don’t stop drinking it, I can’t stop for some reason.

“I heard you do that thing… that chord, the one that I do on… yeah you know? You stole that from me, you bastard.”

“No way! I almost broke the stage. If you get closer to the front and slam your foot down hard enough…”

“We should try it.”

“I bet I’ll do it first.”

“Nah you won’t.”

“Have you seen the size of me? I’ll do it first, just by jumping a bit. Watch me, tomorrow.”

“Your vocals were great… yeah on that one, you should show me how you do that.”

“Takes nothing. Just go like this-“

“Hey, are you alright?” When did George come and sit next to me? It takes a second for me to realise that it’s him, smiling down at me, holding my shoulder. Perhaps I was swaying a bit. Perhaps that’s why everyone else looks as though they’re not swaying.

“Yeah… yeah. A bit-“

“Drunk? Yeah, you’ll get used to it.” He assures me. I feel his thumb running over my collar bone. “We’re going back to the hotel soon, ok? I’ll help you, if you need it.”

I look around at everyone else. They’re getting ready to go. They’re grinding out their cigarettes, finishing the last of their drinks, grabbing coats, blazers, jackets, even shoes that they’d thrown off. I remember that I left something… somewhere. I scan the room with uncertain vision, wondering what the hell I took off.

Ah, it was a jumper. I practically crawl up to a wall, use it to help me up, then unhook my jumper from a splinter in the wall that we all use as a coat hanger. I don’t bother putting it on, it’s still too hot for that. I steady myself on my two feet, waiting for everyone to lead me out. Once everything is scooped up into our collective hands, John and Paul who are leaning on one another, laughing and kissing as though there were no law against it, start to walk towards the door. I head that way too, piling out with Ty and Rory, behind us is George and Stu.

 Walking out onto the road, we all take a moment to check which way we’re heading. We look like a load of tourists, ready to ask for directions in our incoherence and English impoliteness. Because none of us are moving, I look at the moon, shimmering the inky black sky.

It’s never looked so round, so big and beautiful. Perhaps it’s because I’m drunk, or because I’m in a different country, or because I’ve rarely been bothered to look up at the sky. I’m usually in bed around this time, if I’m at home. Where I live, you don’t go out this late. It’s a pretty tough area. My dad used to say that you keep your head down and wits about you.

Technically, this too is a rough area, but I feel safer here. I think it’s being surrounded by my friends, most of which know what this place is like. They know who to speak to or where to go. They’ve really become quite streetwise.

“Ringo, luv,” Not just a voice, but again, a touch takes me away from my thoughts, this time for very good reason. Someone pushes me towards our group who are now on the move. Why must they always do so when I’m not paying attention. It’s like they’re trying to lose me. But someone doesn’t want to. They have a firm grasp of me, standing behind me with one hand wrapped around my waist. I lean a bit on them and they take the extra weight. “Do you need a bit of help?”

It’s George. Of course, it is. He doesn’t take care of anyone, but he’ll happily make sure I’m ok. I love how close he is to me, even though we’re in different bands. “You’re so lovely, George, you know that?”

“Yes, I do.” He says without a hint of modesty.

It makes me laugh. “Promise me you’ll look after me every night. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He giggles softly, tightening his grip around me, “I promise.”

“QUEERS!” Someone yells. We both look forward. It was John, John who has been opening making out with his boyfriend. He’s fucking lucky no one is paying attention to us and everyone is too drunk to notice. Still, calling us queers when we’re only trying not to collapse by bouncing off one another while he is actually groping Paul’s butt. Granted, it is a gorgeous butt.

“Suck Paul’s dick, you fucker!” George yells back at him.

Now, that’s my boy.


	6. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting in a while, lots of stuff has happened, nothing that important or is any excuse not to write.  
> But I'm going to try and write some more of this today, or else I should be back tomorrow with another chapter.  
> Thanks for all the encouragement, by the way!

This is absolutely stupid. I can say it again and again, but no one is listening. I mean, it will probably be fun, but it’s stupid. 

Was it… maybe a week and a half ago, Rory and John made a bet. That’s just what they’re like. Its as if they scout out trouble, skulking in the streets, deliberately getting on people’s nerves. ‘Who can irritate everyone in a small radius the quickest,’ seems to be the unspoken, ongoing challenge of Hamburg, with only two participants still playing. Paul and I dropped out early. Stu was never playing. Pete tried his hardest to keep up and still messes about on occasion, but he opts out as soon as things get too serious. It’s the same with newcomers Johnny, Lou and Ty. Ringo hangs back with Paul and me. Wise decision. I’m surprised we haven’t been chucked out of more clubs. 

John and Rory are in a class of their own, here. This bet will surely give a good reason to the Kaiserkeller club to get rid of us. While drunk, hanging out behind the stage at the Star club, Rory and John started talking about the stage at the Kaiserkeller where we would play some gigs. It was made up of several planks of wood balancing on beer crates, nothing like the Star Club, who had a much more sophisticated raised platform, far sturdier. I heard John talking about how it creaks beneath his weight, that it might smash if he jumped hard enough.

Somehow, this turned into an ‘I bet I could break the stage first’ competition, with the two comparing hypothetical methods of how they’d snap the thing in two. If only it had stayed hypothetical.

“I’ll bet you anything I can break it first.” John had slurred, holding out his hand to seal the deal.

“Anything?” Rory hummed, “Ok, your money for the week. If you win, you get all the money I make this week, if you don’t, you have to give me yours.”

It’s a bad idea. It’s a bad idea because we do need that money to sort of… you know.. Live? That’s a little important. And I don’t want to have to pay John’s way for a whole week until he has money again. Fuck that. I bet The Hurricanes are thinking the same thing. I hoped they might’ve been too drunk to remember anything the next morning.

They remembered. They’ve been trying to break the stage for the past week, banging their feet down, body slamming it, jumping and jumping on it as though it were a trampoline. Only last night did they get anywhere, though. There’s a crack that’s formed in the middle of one of the planks. It’s a small one. It barely reaches a quarter of the width of the wood, yet it’s probably enough. John thinks so. He’s been going around the entire day, talking about how he’s going to finally break it.

And we’re heading to the club now.

“You realise that it’s us first?” Rory finally says, to break poor John’s dreams of getting thrown- probably physically thrown out of the club.

“No, c’mon, it’s us first.” John counters, though he’s not sure of himself. He looks back at ‘walking timetable’ Paul in hopes that he can prove Rory wrong. It’s crucial that he gets to go on stage first, because it’ll only take the right amount of pressure in the right place…

“Its them first, John.” Paul apologetically admits. John’s face turns horrified. All his dreams, all he ever cared about has now been flushed down the loo. He couldn’t care less that he has a handsome Omega, nor that he still has a job that he always wanted- a job that he’s more likely to keep if he doesn’t break the stage. He looks as though everything is ruined. 

I think he’s already drunk.

“Swap with me.” He begs. We walk into the club which is already full of people. Rory shakes his head.

“Swap with me.” John repeats. He’s like a kid. We get to the small room where we usually leave our stuff that we don’t take on stage. I remove my jacket and light up a cigarette. Since we have some time before we’re up, I might as well get comfortable. Or get high. Or get laid… for the first time. It’s hard to find a girl Alpha without sounding like a fucking dick. ‘Oh hi! Do you happen to have a dick that you can stick up my arse, because you are obviously going to be so easy to coax to bed, I won’t even bother with the small talk.’ Ok, I wouldn’t play it exactly like that, but it always feels so awkward. There’s not much point- if I want to find a chick for that kind of play- talking to someone, getting up to my room and realising that she is also an Omega. Or that she is a Beta. I mean, we can still fuck, but it won’t be satisfying, especially not for my first time.

And I can’t ask anyone to help me… my friends, you know, because none of them know I’m an Omega. I really don’t want them knowing. 

What I really want is to get so drunk with Ringo and get him alone so that I can kiss him. Just once. That’ll be enough for my entire…

I do not  _ like _ Ringo. I see him walking with Lou, talking as he drums idly on his thighs with a pair of drumsticks. I can’t help but think of what it would be like to get drunk or high with him, to kiss him and see his reaction. I could imagine him putting one of his ring-decorated hands on my cheek to pull my lips closer. I could imagine us shuffling towards each other, closer and closer until we’re grinding against one another’s bodies. I’d moan his name, he’d whisper mine. He’d tell me that I wanted it, that he’d know for ages about me longing for him...

“I-I’m not g-g-going to swap with… you John. Y-you’ll probably b break it just by standing on it.” Rory laughs. Oh, he’s so smug at the moment.

“Calling me fat?” John spits.

“Yeah, a- and you’re going to t-take it, or else I… I won’t even… consider swapping with you.”

“You wouldn’t fucking swap with me even if I was a chick with huge tits and would bribe you with sex.”

“No, that I… would h-have to swap w-with you for, b..but you’re not… so…”

John scowls at him. Rory laughs back. Ok, this might be fun, just to see the devastation on John’s face when he loses the bet and hasn’t got enough money to pay for his cigarettes for the week. It’s still a stupid idea, but I guess I’m getting swept away by the fun of it all. Rolling my eyes, I accompany Paul and Pete out into the audience, ready to watch our friends. Rory Storm and the Hurricanes are announced. Rory looks deadly smug as he strides up to the less-than-sturdy stage. 

Stu and John walk over to us, drinks in their hands. As John hands me mine, I quip, “I hope Stu bought these, because you’re going to need all the money you can save for next week.”

He shoves me hard. So hard that I fall back into some girl. She pushes me back up, distraught. I apologise, but it’s lost to the crowd.

We all then set our eyes on Rory. Well, we all are looking at the band. My eyes are not on the front man himself, but his drummer, sitting, thrusting his hips into the stool he’s sitting on as he attacks the drum set. People don’t realise how powerful Ringo can be. Those arms are gorgeous. And his blue eyes. Even from way back here, I can see his eyes sparkling like two sapphires in a dark cave. 

Rory isn’t doing anything, yet. He’s singing, doing his usual routine, but nothing specifically aimed at breaking the stage. God, he’s a great entertainer, strutting around, that athletic build of his making him the centre of attention, not to mention his dress sense that sets him apart from the others. While everyone wears thick leather, he’s in a white shirt that glints under the low light. His fair hair makes him stand out too. 

And… what the hell is he doing now? There’s this pile of beer crates by the stage, much like the ones that the stage is made of, and he’s climbing up on top of them. Everyone is watching while they’re dancing, everyone except from us. John has his eyes focused on Rory, Paul is laughing and grinning, having an idea of what Rory might do. Pete is cheering him on and Stu…

Stu is hanging back. He’s standing behind John, not really paying attention. I see that John has his arm around Paul. How cute. Since Rory is now just singing from atop the crates, I do keep my eyes on him, but I step back to stand beside Stu.

“What do you think? Think he’ll jump?” I ask, laughing.

“To be honest, I don’t really care.” Stu huffs, bringing up his bottle of beer and swigging a mouthful of the stuff. 

“Why not?” 

He looks away. It’s like he’s looking at John, then darting his eyes over at the door. I tap him on the shoulder, “Is everything ok?”

“I don’t know how much more of this I want to do.” He tells me, honestly. 

“Messing around?” I ask.

“No. Just… Hamburg and playing in clubs. I don’t think there is much point of me being a Beatle if its not something I want to do in the-”

He’s cut off by a mighty ripping sound, followed by a mixture of gasps and cheers. John has lost all capacity to be angry, instead opting for hysteria, laughing so loud that you can hear him from the stage, going by Rory’s glance at John. I look up to see that Rory is standing at our level, framed by a large V shape, created by the planks of wood caving in. Ringo’s cymbals had followed him into the crevice, along with all the amplifiers. 

“Oh my God!” I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth so not to laugh too loud. 

Footsteps behind us come running and parting the crowd. It’s some people who work there, which is out cue to leave. Because John is at the end of our little row of Beatles, he shoves us all, sending us, like dominos, pushing towards the little room to get our stuff. In a panic, we pick up what we can and run for the door. The Hurricanes meet us out in the road, telling us to keep running. We don’t even care why, we all just start hurdling down the street, our legs moving faster than our brains can think. 

“You absolute fucker!” John yells in delight.

“Told you I’d do it!” Rory chuckles. 

“We have time for ‘I told you so’ back at the hotel,” Pete cries, sprinting up to Rory and punching him in the arm, “So hurry the fuck up.”

I’m running beside Ringo who can barely keep up. I offer him my hand, which he takes and we dart forward. Knowing that the road is pretty clear, I look at everyone, smiles across their faces. This is it, isn’t it? When John had said ‘This is fucking it,’ he meant it. There will never be times like these again.

Yet Stu looks as though someone had stolen his cat. I wonder what’s up with him. He used to like all this stuff. Yeah, he didn’t love being in the band, he wasn’t as serious as John or Paul or me, but he came and we all liked slumming it, being so close. Hu… I wonder if John knows that Stu doesn’t want to do this anymore.

It might kill him.


	7. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooooo Smutty Mclennon in the next chapter. Everyone, get you're lovely Mclennon filth, coming to an AO3 near you!

“Have you heard what’s going on in there?”

I’d not even walking into the room when I was ambushed by two pairs of wide eyes set straight on me. Pete’s sitting on his bed, while George has taken up the one opposite, lying his scrawny body half on his side from the waist down, the top half facing up. His head his poked up like a puppy whose name has been called, his mass of hair even flopping away from his face like a pair of fuzzy ears. It was Pete who spoke and he’s waiting eagerly for an answer.

“Going on in where?”

He shushes me immediately. I had not realised that he whispered. My mind was elsewhere when he spoke. He gestures to the bathroom. I listen. Two soft voices are muffled by the locked door. One voice is slightly harsher than the other, but they’re both too hushed to make out what’s being said, from where I am at least.

I sling down the bag of washing I’d done and tip-toe to sit next to George. He shuffles up to make space.

The voices are Stu and John.

“What’s happened?” I hiss at Pete, who seems to want to gossip.

“Stu’s leaving.”

“What?” My mind can’t decide whether I’m happy or pissed off at that.

I try to listen, but I have to ask, “He’s actually leaving?” I’ve missed most of the conversation, no doubt, it’s pointless my trying to hear anything without any context.

“He wants to. He wants to go back to England and do his art stuff.”

“And leave us?”

“Yeah…”

My heart feels a strange combination of lifted and crushed. It’s like two panels are pushing against the top and bottom of my heart and it can’t decide which to feel. Without Stu, I’ll have my John all to myself in a bed we don’t have to share. Without Stu, John and I might be able to fuck around at night instead of occasionally nipping off to club loos when we know that there will be no one in them. It’s been torturous. I’ve just finished my heat and I would leak constantly for him, yet John couldn’t, and worst wouldn’t, knot me if Stu was there. Fucking Stu is John’s crush, no matter how much John lies and denies, I know that they were, or are, more than friends.

On the other hand, who will be our bassist if Stu goes? It’ll be me, most probably. Our little band, whittled down to four. I don’t really mind taking up the bassist post, but it’ll feel empty, just four little boys on stage, not five.

“Do you think John’ll let him go?” Pete mutters.

I feel suddenly defensive, “John hasn’t got a choice. He can’t stop him.”

“John thinks he had a say in everything.” Pete counters. I look away from him. I mean, it is true, John likes to have a say in every band matter, every friend matter, every family matter.

“Do you lot want him to go?” I ask, snidely.

Pete shrugs, “We’ll miss him no matter, right?”

“Yeah.” I say, which is also true. Stu isn’t so bad when he’s not stealing John’s attention from me.

“John’s pissed, though.” George chimes in. I look down at him. I know he’s not saying it to piss me off. He’s warning me. Still, it hits a nerve. Why should John be so pissed off if he goes? He’s still got me. He has George and Pete. The band will be fine minus one and it’s not like he’s losing a lover. He’s still has his.

I nod, “He will be.”

The argument in the bathroom lasts long enough for The Hurricanes to come down and ask if we want dinner. That means time is getting on. George, starry-eyed at Ringo, says he’ll go and Pete goes off just so to spread the gossip of the Beatles.

“I’ll follow you down once these two are out.” I say, “I’ll bring them down with me.”

And I’m alone in a room, feeling a bit like an Omega who is forced to sit in the next room while his Alpha is fucking his mistress. I know that’s not what they’re doing, because I can hear everything- I’ve moved to sit on Pete and George’s bed- but it feels as crappy to listen to John’s desperate, angry words being spat at Stu.

“The band… seriously if you go, who’s going to play bass? Stay. I begged you to come here, you can’t just decide to leave.”

Stu’s voice is quiet and calm, “Paul will play bass.”

John doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he knows it’s true. Maybe he knows I’m out here and doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. Too fucking late.

“I didn’t want to do this band. I didn’t want to do music, John. You knew that. I want to do art.”

“Go and fucking do art then. I thought we were mates, but, you know, no one’s ever given a shit about that before.”

The painful thing here is, I can’t tell if he meant mates as in friends, or mates as in Alpha/beta. They’re both Alphas, though. If he does mean it in the latter sense, it kills me to think that they have been together, but it hurts even more that John would go on to say that no one has ever cared about being his mate. I am his mate and I care with all my existence.

They emerge from the bathroom after Stu says something so softly that I didn’t catch it. John looks pissed, while Stu looks solemn.

“Where’s everyone else?” Stu asks.

“Didn’t even know you were here.” John says, a level of venom in his voice that I know is not directed to me, but it stings all the same.

“They’ve gone to dinner. Shall we go?” I reply.

Stu grabs his coat, which I assume is a yes, but John collapses on the bed, slouching against the wall. “No thanks.” He says.

Stu gives me an apologetic look. I’m not sure if he knows that I am aware of what he told John. I sigh, “Do you want me to stay with you, John?”

“Go and eat.” He orders. I know not to fuss around him, so I grab a coat and a box of cigarettes and head for the door. John’s voice, softer now, grabs me back for a second.

“Bring me something.”

“Of course, luv.” I smile. He oddly smiles back. I’ve never known John to get over something so quickly, or to suddenly switch his mood, even if he is speaking to someone who had not done anything to him. I close the door behind me, shaking my head.

“Did you hear?” Stu asks as we walk down the stairs.

“Not really,” I lie, “I was just waiting for you two to come out so you didn’t think we all abandoned you.”

Stu smiles, “Thanks. Well, I probably should tell you… and everyone tonight. I want to leave the band. I’m thinking of going home.”

I do well to act shocked, “No! Why?”

“I don’t want to be in the band anymore. It’s been great and fun and everything, but it’s not what I want to do and it getting a bit too crazy.”

I tap his arm fondly, “Really? We’ll miss you if you go.”

“Well,” he sighs, “I think I am going to go. I’m not sure when. I’ll give it a week to get ready. But… yeah. I want to give you my bass.” He nudges me with his elbow as a half smile stretches the corner of one of his lips.

“Really?” He bought that bass with his own money, some money he won. I can’t believe after putting so much effort into the band, he’s ok to leave it, and to give over his bass. I genuinely am touched that he would want to.

“I’ll have no use for it. Not like you. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you!” I exclaim. I sort of want to hug him, but I refrain.

We get back to the hotel a couple of hours later after everyone has had their cry over Stu leaving. He told people quietly and, since we were at quite a long table, the news slowly moved down the line of us. Nobody really knew what to say. He’d made up his mind, he told us he was leaving. We told him we’d miss him, that we wish he’d stay, that things won’t be the same without him, but what more can we say. We moved on quickly from that conversation.

Back in our room, John is undressed and ready for bed. He’s had a shower; his hair is still wet from it. I rarely see his hair flat. From the moment I met him, his hair has almost always been piled up on top of his head, inspired by Elvis. It’s a little different now, not full on teddy boy, but it’s never flat, sticking to the shape of his head, sticking in waving clumps against his skin. I sit right up next to him, holding up a brown bag of take out. He kisses me strangely long on the side of my head. He’s randomly enthusiastic for someone who’d found out that his friend was moving away, a very close friend.

“Thank you, luv.” He croons. I want to be suspicious, but I can’t. He’s stroking my neck in the exact place it has been hurting for a couple of days, he sits so close that I am practically on his lap. Even when he eats, he has one arm around me, using my lap as a table while I lay back and read a book. Everyone else is doing their own thing. Stu is smoking, sharing with George. He offers the cigarette to John who sharply declines. He’s obviously upset about Stu leaving. Again, I want to get angry about that, but John’s touch around me tells me not to worry. He has hold of me, not anyone else.

Pete is reading some porn mag which I think he borrowed from John. He doesn’t seem to be getting all that turned on by it, though he does giggle and turn it around for all of us to gape at it. There are girls clad in their panties, hiding their breasts with hair or strategically placed jewellery. There are some with bras on and are covering their bottom half with hands, or leaves, or loincloths depending on the atmosphere of the background. Then, there is the precious few with their tits hanging out, fully visible. These often get show to us, with John saying some horrendously crude comment about getting it on with the models. Seriously, he hasn’t an inch of shame in his body.

George, in between taking drags from Stu’s cigarette, is plucking at his guitar strings. He is lying down on the bed he shares with Pete, his guitar running across his shoulder, down to the base of it being at his crotch. He doesn’t play anything in particular, he just keeps picking a string and letting the unamplified noise twang in the background of our separate activities, like the soundtrack of a movie in a casual, unimportant scene.

Disliking the silence and getting bored of the pictures in his magazine, Pete starts talking, “Stu, what are you going to do back in England?” We all look up as though he’d called all of our names.

I feel John inwardly sigh. He’s stopped eating and is now lying with his head on my stomach, but his body curved around so that I have my head on his thigh. We must look like a yin and yang symbol.

“I’m going to do my art stuff, you know. It’s what I always wanted to do.”

John scoffs, audibly. I try to shut him up by directing his gaze at me and making a stupid face. He giggles, loudly.

“Do you know when you’ll leave?”

“A week, I think. I’ll have to see about booking a ticket back.”

As the conversation continues, John seems to get more and more restless. Eventually, he sits up a little, places a hand on my cheek to bring me up to, and while the other three are talking, he kisses me, passionately, but slowly. He sticks with closed mouth until I start to kiss back hard. He starts to pry my lips apart, his tongue entering between them and tasting what is his. I feel so lost in the moment. He pushes me back with his forcible snogging and subtle touches with his body, climbing between my legs. I forget that there are others in the room. I open my legs wide, feeling slick begin to prepare myself for knotting, though it might not happen. I thrust very small motions into his crotch, so small that no one else can see if they look over. God, John is being so slow and so loving today, its turning me on too much. I blush bright scarlet with the thought that he may undress me and have me, right here, regardless of who might end up watching.

“Hey, mates!” Pete interrupts our teenage make out session, “Get a room.”

John sits back a bit, his arms wrapped around my calves, “This is a room.” He wittily observes.

“Yeah, but there is three people in here who would rather not see you two fucking. I haven’t got anything against queers, mind you. I’d complain if it was one of you getting off with a chick, so don’t take it personally.”

John shrugs, “I’ll have you later then, my luv,” and he kisses me again, passionately.

We all get ready for bed after that, which is annoying because I was sort of hoping for a winding down session, since I’m now wet with slick, hard and full of dirty thoughts, only to get right into bed with the man I want to have knot me. So, close, yet we can’t do anything.

Tonight’s going to be a long one, especially if John keeps suggestively pressing his own hard-on up against me as we spoon.


	8. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning some smut for the next chapter too, just to satisfy the lack of Starrison sex so far.

Why can’t everyone just shut the fuck up about Stu? So what? He wants to leave the band.I give him leave to, the bastard. Like I’d want him here, even if he begged on his knees for me to let him back. When art goes shit for him and we’re a famous rock and roll band, he’s going to wish he hadn’t abandoned us. 

He thinks I can’t see him when he looks over. Every time he speaks, answering one of Pete’s endless questions, he peers over at me. I may not look back at him, but I see his brown eyes glance at me through my peripheral vision. I bet he’s wondering if I’m hurt. I don’t care anymore. I’ve got my Paulie.

Just to piss Stu off and because I can’t bare hearing everyone going on and on about him bloody leaving, I start to kiss Paulie. I push him onto his back, kissing him while positioning myself on top of his cute, little body. I’ll have him tonight. I don’t give a fuck if Stu’s in the bed, I’ll have my Paulie and Stu can kiss my arse. 

Paul reacts so wonderfully to my kiss. He begins as I do, slow, loving, our lips feathering against one another. Then he gets greedy. He speeds things up, he lets me add tongue, fervently accepting it and enthusiastically reciprocating. I try to slow him down, but I just don’t want to. I slide my hands down his thighs. Reaching his knees, I spread his legs wide, the smell of slick reaching my nose, sending me almost into my rut. Christ, I’ll have him tonight.

“Hey, mates! Get a room.” Pete’s voice breaks from the ever  _ interesting  _ conversation of our friend’s betrayal. He is sitting on his bed, propped up against the wall with his legs drawn to his chest and a porn magazine resting on them.    
“This is a room.” I say, looking around at the four walls. I purposefully don’t look Stu’s way. He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged between the two beds. He hands the cigarette he’s smoking over to George, creating a line of white smoke in the air.   
“Yeah, but there is three people in here who would rather not see you two fucking. I haven’t got anything against queers, mind you. I’d complain if it was one of you getting off with a chick, so don’t take it personally.” Does Pete ever stop talking? He’s so worried we’ll take some sort of offence to the fact that he doesn’t want to see us make out. We don’t give a shit, because we’re still going to make out, whether he likes it or not. Tonight, though, I don’t feel as though I need to piss him off by overenthusiastically snogging Paul’s perfect lips off. He’s not the one I want to prove anything to. I want Stu to see that I don’t fucking need him. He thinks I care so much because I asked him to come here, even though he didn’t play bass so good. We needed a bassist. I thought, since we were good friends, that he might like to see some of the world and get famous with us. He isn’t so bad on the bass. He just has suddenly decided that he doesn’t like making music anymore. Like art is so much better. 

Making sure he is listening, I turn back to Paul and say, “I’ll have you later then, my luv,” with a quick kiss, just to let him know I mean it. 

In bed, with the lights off, I curl up against Paulie, facing the wall. He sleeps as my little spoon, weaving my legs between his and intertwining our fingers as I bury my nose into his neck, nuzzling him there. I make sure I am lying so I’m not touch Stu. We’re all used to the whole touchy feely stuff, lying on top of one another for warmth, sleeping with limbs tossed everywhere, our bodies piled. It doesn’t matter which bandmate we’re next to, if our butts touch, or our legs end up like bricks laid to make a house, we don’t take much notice. Of course, no one is really like me and Paul. We hug intentionally. Then again, no one here is a mated Alpha or Omega. The only other people that hug is Ringo and George, which is strange considering that they’re not even in the same band. 

Still, tonight, I don’t want to feel any part of Stu against me. I shuffle up until Paul is practically against the wall, but he’s asleep so fast, he doesn’t care. I’ll wake him when I know that everyone else is asleep, then I’ll have him. 

Stu is actually a dick. Earlier, when he pulled me into the bathroom like a fucking queer out for a scout for a boyfriend, he looked so quiet, so bloody calm. It was like he didn’t give a shit about what he was going to do. He’s abandoning us and the only expression on his face was that cool, unflinching look. I swear he was never that good-looking, never so cool or collected. He was a spotty, little art student, a good, quiet little boy. I made him cool. I put him in my band. He would never have come to Hamburg, he will never be famous and he’s now lost a friend, because he’s never going to see me again. Unless it’s at a concert with him as a screaming fan, ‘I used to know him!’

He spoke as though he were about to break up with me, how pathetic. Like I need to be let down slowly. He’s my friend, not my fucking Alpha. He’s not Paulie.

For a moment, I wonder why I’m so bothered by his leaving. The reason I say I now want him to go, is because he’s leaving. Does that make any sense? I shake that thought from my head. I’m still pissed at him, whether my reasoning makes sense or not. 

I don’t notice how dark it’s gotten. We didn’t have a gig today, which is very rare. We’ve gone to bed early, which is also very rare. Usually, the early hours of the morning, we’re still out playing at clubs. We sleep sometimes in the afternoon. I’ve had to get used to the erratic schedule of sleeping when we can and getting up at a moment’s notice. Tonight, we seem at pace with the rest of the world, in bed as the sun goes down. It gets pitch black, which my eyes are used to seeing. The familiarity is what surprises me, as I didn’t realise what time it is. It must be getting on for 1 in the morning. I wonder if anyone is awake.

Paul is knocked out, Stu hasn’t moved in a long time. I hear nothing from Pete or George. Maybe this is my chance. I lift my head up. No one stirs. 

Paul looks adorable, bliss written on his soft face. Christ, he has such a beautiful face. It’s that perfect mix of femininity and masculinity. He’s both pretty and handsome. He could pass as a fucking sexy girl  _ and _ a hot man. For some reason, I like that. 

I look over at Stu. He sleeps the opposite way, topping and tailing with us. His light, brown hair is splayed on the mattress, arms curling around and covering his face. In fact, the whole top of his body is bent over except his legs that run parallel to my back. 

I peer over my shoulder to see if all is quiet on the other bed. I can’t see George. I can only see a mass of duvet clumped in a mess. I assume, by the skinny folds, the conforming curves of a scrawny body, that the bump in the bed is our youngest friend. I think that Pete is the lump of black hair on the opposite side. He looks like he’s face down on the mattress. 

Well, it’s now or never, because I think, if I wait much longer, I’ll fall asleep.

I nudge Paul awake. He jolts up and groans, looking around with hooded eyes at why the fuck he’s awake all of a sudden.

“Morning,” I whisper, an evil grin widening my lips. He doesn’t answer, so I kiss him forcefully.

“What the… John!” 

“Shhhhush!” I hiss, “You’ll wake the others.”

“Like you woke me.” He spits.

“No,” I shake my head, still smiling, “Because I mean to wake you up.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to have you.”

He looks around the room as though there are a million eyes on us. Then he shoots a look at me, an ‘are you crazy?’ look.

“Stu’s here.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” I say, probably with more venom than intended. Paul doesn’t know what to say next. I like when he’s like that. He lies there, dumbfounded, waiting for a good comeback. No such retort reveals itself.

I take my chance now, sliding down the bed until my legs are falling off the edge while the top half of me is submerged beneath the duvet. Paul sleeps in a pair of pyjama bottoms, which is really annoying, because as gorgeous as his chest is, I’d much rather his bottom half be nude. I pull down the trousers, so that his half hard member is freed, then I take hold of it, first with my hand, then with my mouth. He says nothing to stop me, does nothing to stop me. I do see him clap a hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out. That’s all the stopping he’ll do tonight. I work him until he’s fully hard, before crawling up, now on top of him, and rubbing myself against him. He whimpers, unable to make much noise. I kiss him, whispering in his ear how good he is, what a good little Omega he’s being. 

As our movements become less subtle, he tries to tone them down a bit, not moving so fast, not rubbing so hard, “John, you’ll wake Stu!” He reminds me. 

I shake my head, “So what? He’ll see us together, and what? Soon enough, Paulie, he’ll be gone and we won’t have to hide.” I enter him, drawing a yelp from his mouth. I love being unexpected. He never sees me coming- well, he sees me  _ coming _ , if you get my meaning.

I continue to make him whimper in the sweetest, high pitched way he always does, the way he begs me with sounds to let him come. I kiss him, lick up his neck to his jaw, I bite on his shoulders and collar bones. Part of me wants to make him moan a little too loud. I sort of want Stu to see us. Then he’ll know I don’t need him. I almost make the bed rock, but Paul insists on keeping as still as possible. Just to please him, I do so.

But as we fuck, my knot locking inside Paul, we hear a voice that is not our own. I stop moving, the bed stills. We look over to the other bed. Is someone awake? Was that sound them telling us to shut up. I’m ready to have a go at them if it is.

But it’s not. 

A moan echoes in the room. It’s not me and, when I look down at Paul, he’s too busy peeking his head up so to see who made the sound. I guess it’s not us. We listen again. We’re usually very good at differentiating voices, since we know everyone in the group so well that we might as well all be family. A very… fucked up family of all boys. However, neither of us were listening properly the first two times we became aware of the sound.

“Ohhh…” 

“George!” Paul whispers. He’s right, it’s George. We get even more proof when the boy shuffles onto his back, the duvet falling off his head. He looks almost pained. Perhaps he’s having a nightmare. 

Or… no! No, George wouldn’t be, would he? Ok so he’s technically still a teenager, right? At 17, you count as a teenager. I know that dreams… those kinds of dreams can happen to a man of any age… but come on! Really?

The moans suggest that he is, in fact, dreaming of sex, and he spills out the name of some chick again and again, though he trails off before he says the full thing.

“Ric… Ri… fucking, please. Ah…” I see a section of duvent that’s moving up and down, far quicker than his breathes. My god, he actually is touching himself. His expression isn’t pain, it’s wracked with that addictive pleasure, building up below his stomach. 

“He’s not, is he?” Paul laughs, quietly.

I chuckle back, “Oh yes he is. And we’re gonna get him tomorrow.”

“Ew! What the fuck?” Suddenly, Stu’s voice adds to the mix. He jolts back so far he almost falls out of the bed, “Are you two fucking? Seriously? I’m trying to fucking sleep here!”

I grin to myself. Tonight has been perfect. I steal Paul off into the toilet to finish him off- sitting him on the toilet seat which he insists on covering with a towel. To be fair, the loo is filthy. I was able to wake Stu and get him to see that I have Paul, that I’m not affected by his decision to abandon us.

And, on top of all of that, I have some shit on George that’ll make him blush tomorrow.


	9. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh, I don't know how good this chapter is. I'll probably read over it tomorrow.  
> And this is dedicated to our darling Ringo Starr. Have a very happy birthday, my luv.

Ringo is drunk, swaying round with a cigarette lodged between his lips. He shows me what he calls a trick, it’s just him taking a drag of the cigarette without having to hold it. It sort of works. Smoke spills out of the corners of his mouth, blinding him as it rises, blowing in his face.

I laugh. I guess I’m drunk too. Everything is blurry and dark, but Ringo is clear. He looks as though he has the sun beating down on him. His bright blue eyes look like the moon that shines in the dark night sky outside. Wait? How do I know what’s going on outside?

Oh, there is a window on the ceiling. The moon smiles at me. Ringo’s eyes are brighter. When I look down at him, he had followed my gaze and it still looking at the inky sky outside.

I smile. He looks so gorgeous. He has a chain around his neck that folds over the curves of his neck. His rings glint on his hands. He’s wearing a black shirt with white buttons dotted down the front. On his legs are a pair of smart trousers. His hair is a little messed. He looks like he’s been on stage.

He hands me his cigarette and I take a drag. I can’t stop my mind from thinking that his mouth had been around the end that I suck.

Maybe he’s read my mind, because an evil smile comes across his face as he says, “You wondering what else I can get my mouth around?”

My bottom jaw drops open. I can’t believe… not Ringo. He wouldn’t think such a thing. But here he is, sitting in front of me, his smile as clear and bright as the sun.

“Well…” My voice echoes around the room. We’re backstage at the Star. I think I’ve taken something, because everything feels strange. Maybe Ringo didn’t say that. Maybe that’s what I want to hear.

“Would you like to find out?” He asks.

The next thing I know, before I can think about what’s going on, I’m following him to the main part of the club. There are loads of people, crowds of them, all watching a band we half know, because they play here a lot. Ringo’s hand is around mine and he drags me to the back of the club that’s dark, a very dark corner. It’s like going into a black fog. No one can see us.

Ringo presses his body against mine and kisses me. His lips are full, soft, skilled. He stuns me into silence, I never thought he’d be so forceful or adept. He tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and… chocolate? I think. What’s he been eating? I use my curiosity as an excuse to thrust my tongue into his mouth.

He pulls away, giggling, “Oh Georgie.” Then he slides down onto his knees, those huge eyes gazing up at me, looking almost innocent. I know better. I know better because he has his fingers fiddling with my fly. He drags down my trousers to the tops of my thighs are exposed. I can see loads of people, still dancing to the music, which fills me with fear that people might see me…

I like that. I like it a lot. What if they do see me? Oh, that would be fun.

Ringo takes me in his hand, coaxing me hard. What would people’s reactions be if they saw me coming undone at Ringo’s touch? Would they be stunned? Would they hate me? A spark of pleasure runs down my back. Ringo’s hot, wet mouth closes around me. His tongue flicks over the head. I thrust my hips forward. I hear his giggle, it vibrates around my flesh. My God.

He doesn’t let me finish like that. Once into a rhythm, building up the pleasure to the point I think I’m going to burst, he stops and comes up again, to whisper in my ear.

“You want my knot? You’ve always wanted my knot, haven’t you Georgie?” I feel him, hard against my hip. I help him unzip his trousers. He orders me to turn around. Facing the wall, I feel Ringo’s entire body parallel to my back. He moves my shirt, hiking up to my hip, exposing my butt. A cold air rushed over it. I feel conscious of the eyes that could potentially see me. I want to know if anyone is looking. I’d like that. I want Ringo to see, obviously, but I want others to see me and Ringo together.

I’m so slick that Ringo pushes a first finger into me, then without a single stroke, pushes another. After working me a little with two, he adds another and another. I feel his rings touch my flesh, the cold of it sending a shiver running through me. I’m moaning against the wall. It absorbs my sounds. No one hears. The band is also masking me.

Ringo licks up my neck as I feel his hand guide his member inside me. He moans into my ear. I groan so loud that the band stops. Everyone turns to look at me. As though there is a spotlight above us, the corner lights up. I peer over my shoulder to see everyone, their eyes set on me, me and my Ringo.

“Ri… Richie…”

I wake up, the morning having already been sitting in the sky for a couple of hours, a blue sky stretching in our window, a line of buildings that surround us silhouetted. Almost everyone is already awake… and Ringo is here. I turn around onto my side so I’m facing the opposite bed where Stu is still lying. Ringo is leaning on the wall by the bathroom door, smoking. I’m facing him. My face flushes. Oh Christ, that dream.

“Morning.” Ringo says. I see that Lou is also here.

“We’ve got to get down to one of the clubs. We need to set up. It’s a new place.” Paul is saying. I rub my eyes with the side of my fist. When I open them again, Pete has come out of the loo and John has head in, declaring that he needs a piss to all of us, though no one asked.

“Morning.” I reply to Ringo.

He grins, “Are you going to get up?”

“No.” I laugh. He laughs too. He notices a clean shirt on the floor, one of mine. He picks it up and straightens it out, then holds it out for me to decide whether I want to wear it today. I nod and drag myself up to sit on the corner of the bed. I almost take the duvet off me, when I suddenly realise that I’m not… decent. I’m hanging out. Did I touch myself last night? It’s totally believable.

I stretch my hand out to take the shirt from Ringo. He helps me thread my arms through the sleeve. I try to keep myself covered. God, it's so awkward. I feel myself getting turned on again. I flush even brighter. Ringo seems not to notice.

John comes out of the loo and sees Ringo standing close to me. He laughs, evilly, “Sorry Ringo. George’s got eyes for someone other than you.” He says.

Ringo ignores him. I’m so glad he never listens to John’s jokes. He steps back against the wall. John doesn’t drop it.

“He was touching himself last night over some chick. We heard him calling her name over and over.” He is voice reaches a higher pitch as though he were female, “Oh, please George, please.”

Oh fuck! Did I actually talk in my sleep? As long as I didn’t say Richie out loud. I roll my eyes as I button up my shirt. Where are my trousers? I see a pair that I haven’t worn in a while next to the bedside table. I point at them and beg Ringo with my eyes to pick them up.

“So…” Lou pipes up, “...who was the chick. That girl you banged a couple of nights ago?”

“What girl?” Ringo asks. He shoots Lou a look. I do as well. I didn’t fuck any girl. I haven’t been with any girl, ever. Does no one know that? Thank god!

“That brunette down at the club. Didn’t you piss off to the toilets with her at the Star?”

There was one girl. She liked me, but she was too obviously an Omega in heat. I remember making an excuse to go to the toilet to get away from her. She didn’t come with me.

“Nah, she was an Omega.” I admit, “I would’ve stole a wondrous night from some Alpha.” I pull on my trousers and tuck my shirt into the waistband. I finally get up and search for socks. It seems the conversation is over, but John insists on continuing.

He places his hand up, “What you mean to say is that you’re still a virgin and you don’t want to lose your virginity to some shit bitch in a club.”

My heart stops. Oh, I could kill John. I stand up straight and give him a dirty look. Almost everyone looks at me, surprised. This is how I imagine it to be if I told them all that I was an Omega. I zip my lips. I wish John would have as well.

“You’re a virgin, George?” Paul asks. This is surprising, because Paul should know. He’s known me for longer than anyone here. Everyone else’s expressions mirror his. With all eyes set on me- much like my dream- I feel obligated to answer. Why I do honestly, I’ve no idea. It can’t go well for me.

“Yes.” I see smiles cross John and Pete’s face. They exchange looks. “What?”

“There’s plenty of girls around here, you know, girls who will be quite happy to take that innocence from you, Georgie, at the right price.” John looks like he’s planning something. I don’t like where this is going.

Pete seems to have the same idea. Paul gets it too. He looks as though he disapproves, but does shrug at me, as though it’s not the worst idea ever.

“Yeah, that’ll be a cool story. First shag you ever had was with a prostitute. Way cooler than mine.” Pete mentioned.

“A lot of first shags are way cooler than yours, Pete.” John quips back. Pete tosses a pillow at him. Everyone forgets about me for a while as we laugh, agreeing with John.

Yet we’re soon back, “We could put our money together,” Lou suggests, liking the idea too.

“What do you say, Georgie?” John asks.

I’m dumbstruck. I can’t say no. If I did, they’ll probably just hire a girl anyway. I need some say in this or my first time is going to be shit. I mean, if I can’t help pick the girl, I’ll be stuck with some Beta, have some unsatisfying sex, make her feel shit because my dick is so small. Even if it’s big for an Omega, it’s not that… I don’t know. I’m suddenly feeling inadequate, self-conscious.

I’m about to speak, but another voice comes out when I open my mouth, “You can’t be serious.”

Our eyes all shoot straight at Ringo. He’s back leaning against the wall. While everyone else is smiling, he’s looking sceptical.

“Oh, come on, Richie! He’s never going to get laid if he doesn’t agree. He’s not that good looking.” John gives me a flashing smile, as though he’s saying, ‘you’re welcome.’ I place my middle finger up in the air. He scrunches his nose up at me.

“I don’t know about that.” Ringo counters. It’s nice that he’s defending me, I can’t help but smile. Oh, does he know what he’s doing to me? He’s just too kind, just too nice. And he just indirectly said that he thinks I’m good-looking. My heart skips.

Then it shatters when John asserts that he will find me a girl for my first time. He’ll find one tonight at our gig.

“And you’ll fucking like it,” Then he turns to Ringo, “And you will stop being so bloody protective over a straight Beta. He’s not yours, Luv.”

 


	10. Ringo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not proud of this chapter  
> I'm trying my best to organise everything, but in doing that, I kept having to think about how to go on from the last chapter, going onto continuing the different subplots.   
> I hope it's ok. I think I just need to write some more to get back on track

I grit my teeth. I hope is not visible. Sometimes, just on occasion, I want to punch John. It really gets under my skin when he tells me that George is not mine. I know he’s not, but he is also not John’s. John can’t instruct me on how to be with anyone other than Paul. Paul is John’s.

But I really don’t like this idea. First of all, and most of all, I don’t like the idea of George’s first time being with someone who we had to pay. It’s just not… intimate or important. It feels cheap and nasty. And he could get any chick just by looking their way. He doesn’t need to pay someone. I’d even do it if he asked! But he won’t ask me. He’s not queer, nor is he an Omega.

Eh, maybe he doesn’t mind much how he loses his virginity. He’s… what, 17 years old now. Everyone around him has been there, done that. Maybe he’s ok to have a shit first time just to get on our level.

I wish I could make things special for him, but I feel as though I am sitting in the back seat while John is the driving force in this crazy scheme. He tells everyone what the plan is, much to the dismay of George.

“You’re a virgin… still?” Asks Johnny, who is half laughing. We’re sitting in the back of the Star club, like we usually do. We’re meant to be setting up for tonight’s gig. It’ll be a proper, normal day/night for us lot today. Playing until the early hours of the morning, sleeping in the day, playing again at the Star that night. It might be like that all week. We haven’t had a routine week in a while.

George rolls his eyes, not speaking, because he is well aware that John will reply for him.

The oldest Beatle delights in saying, “Yeah, still. And we all thought he’d had his first ride way before any of us had.”

The rest of the Hurricanes nods and mumble in agreement. They can barely believe that secretly pervy, little Georgie is still an innocent kid. We often forget that he is the youngest one of us all.

Well everyone else seems to forget it, but I don’t. I also don’t forget that Georgie has opinions and thoughts. Maybe he’d like them voiced.

Out of boredom and hunger, since I haven’t had breakfast today, I offer to go and get lunch to bring back for everyone. It’s already getting on for the afternoon. We didn’t bother getting up early… or at all this morning. I didn’t catch the time as we left the hotel, because I was too swept away in my condemning this plan to get George laid as everyone else talked about it.

John, who after the bet a couple of nights ago, has lost his money for the week, jumps at the chance to have someone buy him food. It means that he doesn’t have to beg Paul to get him stuff. It also occurs to me that it is John’s idea to get a working girl for Georgie, yet we’ll all have to pay for her, not him. I could just take my cut out of the deal and hope that they don’t have enough to get a whore, if I really don’t want them to do it, but I think I should ask George his views first, because he may be all for it.

Anyway, I ask if anyone wants to come with me, directing the question at George. He looks as though he really could do with getting the hell out of this place with everyone laughing at the fact that he is still so innocent. Of course, I have my ulterior motive, though it is to help George, so I’m sure he won’t mind. He also won’t have to clear up this place, if the others get to it when we leave. Paul offers to come, but John wants him to stay so that he can ‘help him set up’ though I’m pretty sure Paul will end up doing all it. No one has really been bothered to actually get the stage ready yet. It’s looking like a mess of last night’s gig. The house’s instruments, amps, microphones, they’re all in the wrong place. On the floor, there are piles of beer bottles, glass cups that’ll surely smash if we don’t clean them up soon. None of our stuff is even here yet. We were going to lug it from our hotel room once we had assessed the damage we’d have to clear up. There’s a lot, so whoever is staying will probably get the place in some kind of order before we bring our instruments down.

George agrees to come with me, everyone else is too busy smoking fags or talking about George’s prostitute. As we leave together, I hear someone catcall at us. No doubt it was John, whistling at the very top of his lungs to give everyone else a bit of a laugh. George turns around and sticks his finger up at them. I think he really is bothered by all of this.

“You don’t like this idea, do you?” I say as we’re walking down the streets of Hamburg. In the light, it doesn’t look as creepy as I know it to be when the sun goes down. It looks quite rough, but nice. There’s something about being in a different country, the magic of it. I may have been here for quite a while now, but it’s still hard to believe that we are not in Liverpool. We’re living in Germany. Weird for someone who has only ever known England.

George looks up at me from deep within his own thoughts, “Oh I don’t know.” He sighs, “What I really don’t like is that everyone has to make a bloody joke of everything. So, I have a wet dream, so what? So, I’ve never had sex before, so fucking what?”

I nod, sympathetically. It can get a bit much being around the same people, always having that joker in the group who can’t see when jokes just aren’t funny anymore. “But do you actually want to do this, you know, be with a whore?” I ask gently.

“I don’t really care. It’s just a bit hard for me, you know.” He bites his bottom lip, “I mean, I’m not sure how I’m going to…”

He looks as though he’s digging a hole he has no idea how to get out of. I tap his arm softly, “It’s fine. You’ll know what to do. I’d offer to help, but she might find it a bit weird.” I joke.

He laughs, “She might like it.”

I might. I would in fact. Minus the girl though. I try to change the subject.

“So, what were you dreaming about last night?” It may not be a huge step away from an awkward conversation, it may not be something that George wants to talk about- judging by the way he squeezes his eyes shut- but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. I hope either he thinks of a better subject, or he doesn’t hate me enough to talk about this one.

He sighs again, but starts to speak quite normally, “It was just about a… girl. She blew me in the back of the Star.”

Bad conversation point. I can feel myself… em… reacting to his words, my trousers losing their roomy feel. Oh, I hope he can’t see. “Yeah? Any girl in particular?”

“No…” He shyly giggles to himself, “Not anyone you’d know, I don’t think. Well, I don’t really remember, you know, I wasn’t really looking at her face.”

We laugh together. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if I was in The Beatles. I think of that, because I think of all the times George and I would end up laughing like we do, hanging out and being closer than ever. Even if we can never be mates in the sense my Alpha side tells me I would like, I would love just being friends with him. As our laughter dies down, I sling my arm over George’s shoulder.


	11. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I've finally got direction again.  
> Tell me if these past chapters have been shit.

I am excited! I’m so fucking excited. I woke up today already in a good mood, because Stu saw everything yesterday and he still hasn’t spoken to me properly- I wonder if he knows that he’s lost a friend yet. He seems pissed off, so he now knows how I feel. But then, as if that was not good enough, I find out that my suspicions of Georgie being a virgin are correct. The poor kid has not had a taste of being a real man yet. Of course, I have to help him, whether he asks for help or not.

I tell everyone who doesn’t know about George upon seeing them this morning.  We have to get to the Star club early today and, as we get out onto the road, I ask, “Who knows the big news of today?”

The few in the Hurricanes that weren’t with us earlier look up and say, “No.” Oh, I delight in telling them.

“Little Georgie’s still a little man. He hasn’t had sex, so we’re going to find a whore and make him lose that innocence.” Seeing George squirm under the sudden influx of attention is hilarious. Oh, it’s going to be a long day, but a fucking fun one. As we walk down the deserted street, I pull Paul to my side and kiss him, hidden by my friends and fellow bandmates who surround us. I see Stu look away. Feel it, you dick. Feel how it is to not be wanted. This is so much better than a middle finger.

Already I’m scouting out some girls, but it’s way too early for them. It’s just gone noon. They won’t be out for another five hours or so, and those girls who come out so early are really not worth our time. I think about what to do in the meantime. Of course, we have all the shit to do at the club, but like I really give a fuck about that. I need projects to keep my mind going. Pissing Stu off comes to mind first. I decide to stick with that.

Everyone is talking about Georgie, but I cut in, announcing “I’ve been meaning to find somewhere nice for dinner, Somewhere that’s not a fucking shithole. We should go and look.” Everyone looks up, confused. I’m all over the place today. I turn around so that I’m walking backwards. I then look at Stu directly in the eyes, “But it’s pointless you coming, if you’re just going to leave here, anyway.” I watch as expressions turn awkward but I don’t wait to see Stu’s. I turn around with a flick of my head. I just hope he’s feeling like shit. I’m not, not anymore. I run over to George and sling my arm around him. “What do you say, Georgie?”

“Well, we were going to have a goodbye… sort of… thing for Stu. We could find somewhere nice to eat around…” And, once again, that shit feeling spreads through me like the worst climax ever.

I push myself off him “Stu doesn’t need a goodbye ‘thing.’” I spit “I’ll give ‘im one right now.” I walk up to him, stop him in his tracks and smile, right in that solemn face of his, “Goodbye, you fucker.”

“John… I,”

I walk off before he can say much more. Fuck everyone for loving Stu when he’s abandoning us.

We get to the Star. I cannot be bothered to do anything. The place is trashed, I would’ve liked to be here when it got fucked. I bet the night was amazing. There are overturned drinks and their containers everywhere. There napkins and bits of fabric and forgotten scarves or hats all over the floor. The stage is a right mess. I wonder who was performing here. Whoever it was, I hope they had a great time. It certainly looks like they did.

We all file into the small backstage room and I sit down. I’m not doing any clearing up until I’ve had a smoke and a sit down. The walk here is tiring enough, I really don’t want to have to make this place look presentable, then have to wander back to the hotel to lug load of equipment back down here. It was so much easier when we were living backstage of the Kaiserkeller. Get up, run across the road for some food, run back across the road, kick arse playing epic rock and roll, then have breakfast and sleep during the day when the cinema, which was next door, wasn’t playing something too loud that would disturb us.

In seeing that no one is really interested in setting up, everyone sits down around the room. I’m surprised that we all fit in here without sitting on top of each other. I sit on the shitty armchair and have Paul sitting between my legs. I share a cigarette with him while Johnny pipes up with “You’re a virgin… still?”

George does not want to answer, but even so, I get in there too quickly for him to deny or admit to it. “Yeah, still. And we all thought he’d had his first ride way before any of us had.”

“Yeah…” Lou, Ty and Johnny all say. Ty lights up a cigarette and kicks back onto the wall. He’s sitting a little behind me.

“So, are yeh planning to do anything about that, Georgie?” He asks.

Again, I interject, “We’re gonna hire a whore. You want to help.”

“You mean help pay,” Rory teases. He’s referencing the bet I lost the other day. I scowl at him.

“That’s part of it, yeah.” I admit “But it’s for a good cause, come on. Our little baby needs to become a man.”

“Oh _god.”_ I hear George whine as he clasps his head in his hands, a fag between his fingers being held a little out of the way so not to set his hair on fire.

Of course, trust Ringo to save the day. The Hurricane drummer stands up and declares that he’s hungry.

“I’m going to go and get some food. I’ll bring some back. Anyone wants to come with me?” He looks as George as though he were only talking to him. George doesn’t think twice about falling into Ringo’s safe, unfailing arms. They stand together.

“I’ll come too.” Paul says, but I tug him back to sit as he was.

“You’ve got to help me clean up, luv.” I say, batting my eyelashes. He shakes his head, but can’t say no. I ruffle his hair fondly, _good little Paulie baby._

No one else wants to go, so the two secret love birds piss off to get us food. Thank fuck I don’t have to ask for someone to buy me something to eat. I’ve been doing that since I fucked up the bet with Rory and lost my pay for a week.

We sit, smoking, laughing, procrastinating with the clean-up of the club in favour of planning George’s first lay. However, the owners of the Star find us sitting on our arses, not giving a crap and gives us a proper bollocking in German. While we don’t fully understand, we get the gist.

“Fucking clean up or get the fuck out.” We drag ourselves to our feet, with some help from Paul, who is always over optimistic about doing chores, and head out onto the deserted, filthy dance floor. I start picking up some bottles, sticky, half smashed glass bottles, off the floor. Some of the guys follow my lead, while a few of us pick up cleaning equipment to start on the stage.

One of those helping me on the ground is Stu. When everyone else is too busy with their work, he shuffles up close to me, collecting the shattered remains of a beer bottle, the base of which I had in my cupped palm, trying not to cut myself.

“John,” He hisses. I give him a half glance. “I know you must be really mad at me because I’m going. I can say sorry as many times as you want, but I know you just don’t give a fuck. You want to be angry at me. I just wanted to tell you that I’m giving my bass to Paul. I want you guys to have it.”

I look up. Ok that’s nice, but I still want to be angry at him.

“What’s that? A going-away present?”

“John, I’m not even that good on bass.”

It cuts me like the sharp glass edge of a broken beer bottle when he says things like that, when he tells me that he’s not good enough. “You’re fucking fine. We wouldn’t be the Beatles without you. I really…” I look over at Paul. He’s looking at me. I don’t finish my thought, I just turn around and head to the bin, leaving Stu to pick up the last shards of glass. I go over to another part of the floor.

He follows me after throwing away the contents of his hand. “You’ll be fine without me, John. You have Paul…”

“I know I have Paul,” I whisper shout, “Don’t you forget I have Paul. You think you are such a big part of my life, you can piss off, alright? I don’t give a fuck anymore. I want you to go.”

“If that were true, why did you just say that you won’t be the Beatles without me?”

I bite my bottom lip out of habit. I have nothing to say. I stand up, smashing a bottle that I had in my hand on the floor by Stu, then walk over to Paul, kissing him on the cheek.

“You ok?” He whispers.

“Are you?” I snap back, moving a microphone stand to the front of the stage.


	12. Paul

So, I’ve noticed something. Yesterday, John was overly… nice to me. Even the sex and making out was… oddly nice and very passionate, rather than aggressive and desperate. John hugged me, he kept me close. He woke me up and broke our promise to Stu that we would fuck when we were in the same bed as him. He even looked happy when Stu woke up to see us in position. As he dragged me off to the toilet to finish what we’d started, he looked smug, his smug smile kissing mine. I don’t know perhaps it was just me.

But then, today, John has been all over the place. He was overly happy this morning. He’s been cool with everyone. He’s teased George, yes, but that hasn’t been bad or worrying as such. That’s normal for him. What’s not normal is his out-casting of Stu. Deliberately and all day he’s been including everyone but Stu. He did that ‘goodbye fucker’ thing, right at his face with a huge smile on his lips. I feel as though I’m a part of a scheme that I never knew about until I stood back to look at what’s been going on.

I think John is trying to get back at Stu using me.

I really don’t blame Stu for leaving. If it’s what he wants to do, then it’s good that he’s doing it. I’ve mostly lost all that pent-up anger towards him. It might be because I’m going to have John all to myself, or it might be because I’ve realised that I might miss him. Either way, I don’t really want to hurt him, make him feel uncomfortable or like he hasn’t got any friends in his last few days here. I accept John’s extra affection selfishly, because it’s rare I get any akin to this, but I do not join in his isolation of Stu.

It does hurt a little that John is so bothered by Stu’s leaving, but I put my own problems to one side.

I start to sweep up the sticky stage. The owner of the Star came shouting at us to do some cleaning. We’d promised we would. It was part of the deal; we’d perform, we’d clear up. Though I’m not sure whether it was meant to be us clearing last night’s mess or our own. Both seem to have become our task, probably because we’re regulars.

We flock into the mess-streaked main room of the club, all of us minus Ringo and George. I wish they’d hurry up with lunch. I’m starving, and food will probably give us all something to talk about other than the fact that George is a virgin. I can see in his eyes that it’s bothering him, with everyone talking about it as if it were the news story of the week. Still, he didn’t seem completely turned off by the idea of finally getting laid. Some of the street girls aren’t too grotty. I’d happily take one, should people offer to pay, though I wouldn’t tell John that. He may not have ever said that we couldn’t fuck other people, but I’m not going to be the first to cross that line. I don’t need anyone other than John anyway.

I wonder what John’s doing. I wonder if he’s actually cleaning up. I peer up from my focus on getting this one small section of the stage presentable and see my dearest Alpha on one knee on the floor. By his side, collecting bits of a broken bottle, is Stu. I resist the urge to scowl. They’re deep in conversation. John’s expression is hard and angry, avoiding the wary eyes of his friend. He looks the way he does when he’s pissed off at me.

How dare he act the same with Stu as he does with me. It stings.

“Ty, will yeh grab this?” I breathe at the Hurricane’s lead guitarist. He wanders over to grab the mug, a half full mug of some indistinguishable liquid, out of my hands and takes it over to the bar. There is no one at the bar yet. We could go behind it, but we choose not to, not right now. We will have to when we put back the unbroken glasses and what not that the bar can still use.

Once Ty goes off, I walk to the front of the stage to sweep where I hope I can hear John better. Before, he was just a series of hushed muffles, a load of ‘S’s’ and ‘F’s’ that could only be whispers so quiet.

Now, I hear words, though not very many.               

“…fucking fine. …without you. I really…” John says. He’s looking a mixture of angry and upset. Then he meets my gaze. I look away, but he’s already seen me. He shuts up and storms over to the bin. He’s closer now, I can hear slightly better. Pointless, though, because Stu stays where he is to finish what John had started, picking up the last few shards off the floor.

When he finishes, he goes over to the bin too. I hear him say “You’ll… fine… John…. Paul.”

Before I can even question why Stu might have said my name, John explodes, probably louder than he meant to, “I know I have Paul,” He quietens down when he realises that others looked up because they heard him. I shoot my gaze at the floor. I want him to continue so that I can hear. I’m not sure if he looks my way. “Don’t you forget I have Paul. You think you are such a big part of my life, you can piss off, alright? I don’t give a fuck anymore. I want you to go.” I can’t stop myself from smiling.

Stu says something else, but John hasn’t the time for it. I hear his footsteps near me. Acting as though I hadn’t heard a thing, I look up and smile softly.

“You ok?”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I’m fine, John.” Well, I’m not. It sticks in my mind that he’s upset with Stu. No matter the times my mind sways back and forth, liking that Stu is leaving or John’s words or Stu’s submission at our relationship, I always end up back at seeing green. I’m jealous. I’m jealous because I can see John using me. He may not want Stu in the same way as he wants me, but there are too many similarities between my jealousy as John’s. It’s making us angry, it’s making us irrational, it’s making us confused in our emotions. One minute we’re high, then next, we’ve plummeted back to rage. That’s where it always ends up. I want to stop it. I want John to stop looking at Stu as though they’d had a lovers’ tiff.

“John, why are you upset?” I inquire.

“I’m not upset.” He hisses, stepping away from me, pretending that he does so to pick up a few paper napkins, but I know he just doesn’t want to talk to me. I follow him.

“Yes, you are. Can we go and talk?”

“You can go somewhere and talk. Maybe you can go to the loo, because you do talk a load of shit, sometimes.”

That was just uncalled for. Taken aback, I have to think about what to do, how to retaliate.

“Please, I really want to tell you something.” I beg, stepping towards him and touching his arm.

He pauses cleaning. “Fine. But only because it gets me out of doing this shit.”

Excusing ourselves from the room, we head… well, we actually go into the toilets. We would go backstage, but there’s more chance of everyone hearing us if we’re there. I’d rather this stay private.

We close the loo door behind us. John stands by the sinks, I stand opposite him. I’m not sure what to say. I wait, instead, for him to properly look at me, because his eyes are everywhere except where they should be, looking into mine.

“I’m happy to stand here all day, luv.” He says. I shuffle. He looks up, but his beautiful brown pupils have found elsewhere to focus on. I wonder what he’s looking at. “Or, since you wanted to be alone…” As he trails off, he lunges at me, pressing his lips to mine. I struggle against him as he kisses me deeper. This is not what I want.

“John! John!” I squeal, “John, get off. I’ll call for help, I swear.”

His wandering hands stop at the collar of my shirt, his lips pausing in place. I push him back a little, he follows the momentum. I have his attention.

“John, please listen to me. I want to know why you’re angry.”

He steps back fully, walking until his butt touches the sink surface.

“I’m not angry.” His tone totally contradicts his words.

I cock my head to the side, narrowing my eyes, “Bollocks.”

“You’ve got some right nerve, you ‘ave, my little Omega. Why don’t you just remember who’s your Alpha?”

“Why don’t you remember who you’re meant to love?” I counter.

He looks hurt and confused, “I know who I love. It’s you who seems to forget, what with you talking back to me like that. Anyone would think you had the right to do so.”

“I do, John. I’m allowed to tell you how I feel. That’s part of being in a relationship.”

“Don’t get all mush-like. I won’t listen to that shit.”

I feel like pulling all of my hair out, even though it took me ages to get it looking as perfect as it does now. I’ll tear out every strand. “Will you listen when I say that I think you like Stu or something, because you’ve been so bloody pissed off with him ever since he said he was leaving. It’s like you want to get back at him for leaving us.”

I see John’s jaw visibly clamp. I can imagine he’s wondering if it’s worth facing up to everything in here, or if it’s better running out and doing some work. He can’t decide, “I don’t like Stu. I’m not pissed off that he’s leaving, that’s his fucking choice.”

“Then why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?” He’s practically shouting now.

“Well, you sound like you’re pissed off. You’re shouting at me. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m pissed off because you, Paulie, think you can accuse me of shit and talk to me like I’m a piece of shit.” He’s finally decided. Outside is better. He strides to the door, swings it open with such force that it bashes the wall and, well, I’m not sure if he goes to do any work. I want to take a moment in here.

Fuck, I’m furious at him. Can’t he fucking see how I feel? He’s crying inside because Stu’s leaving, he’s using me to make himself feel better. I’m nothing more than a tool. I’m sorry for him, because I’m going to make him see that not only am I not a tool, but I am going to make him feel the way I feel right now.


	13. John

I feel as though I’m fighting with everyone. I came to Hamburg with friends, bandmates and a lover. They seem to be slipping through my fingers, what with Stu leaving, Paul getting pissed at me and the rest giving me space while all my anger blows over. It does not cease, not easily, so I decide against helping anyone with the cleaning up of the Star for the rest of the day. Of course, I’ll do the show, I’ll smile and grin at the audience, making them feel good no matter how shit I’m feeling, but I’m not getting ready for it. I’m going to sit on my arse backstage.

That is until Rory turns up, standing in the doorway with his forearm holding up a section of the blue stage curtain.

“W-would y…you mind coming to get ss-ome stuff from the… hotel?” He asks.

I give him an ‘are you serious’ look, “Um… let me think about that, son.”

Before I can, comically, say ‘no,’ obviously not needing to actually think about helping him, he cuts me off, “We th-thought you might… want t…o find a g-girl for George. They’ll be out now.”

As much as I do fancy staying here, ignoring the world until the performance tonight, I remember my mission to get Georgie, virginal Georgie, laid. I almost jump out of my seat.

“Let’s go.”

My eyes dart around the streets as we walk back to the club. They go from girl to girl. It’s just about time for the moon-powered women to come a-walking, looking for a customer. They’re lucky tonight, because I’m looking for business.

None of them really grasp me. They wonder on by, plain of face or damn right rough-looking, and while I may not have to fuck them, poor Georgie does. I’m on the prowl for someone a little well off in the looks department. The others, Rory, Johnny, Lou and Pete who are with me, now carrying several pieces of equipment each, have their eyes peeled too. They point out some girls huddling on a darkened corner in an alley way behind some building. Pete’s the one who notices them, saying that the one with dirty blonde hair might be a good choice.

“No, look at her.” I say gesturing with my head as my arms are incapacitated, “She’s drunk already, she seems cheap. We want Georgie to have someone who at least knows how to dress themselves.”

“Should we be worried?” Pete asks, “You know too much about whores.”

I smile, quite proud. I’m not sure how I know. I guess it becomes instinct, but I take the opportunity for a laugh anyway, “You forget that my mum was one.”

No one really knows whether I mean it as a joke or a dig at my mum. When I start laughing, though, they’re shell-shocked faces nervously form into amused glares, wondering if it is ok to find funny, or if it even is.

“Keep your eyes open, though,” I remind them, and as I say this, I feel as brush on my shoulder as someone walks past. It’s none of the boys, because they’re all either in front of me, or walking at my level. It’s a girl with pitch black, long, straight locks of hair falling in perfect sheets onto a pair of clothed shoulders. It’s her hair that I see first as it flashes in front of my face, following her footsteps while fighting against the gentle breeze. Strand by strand it swashes and swings, each following the next with precision. Then I see her thin body, not very curvaceous, but top heavy with a pair of tits that probably give her back ache. They’re amazingly huge. You can tell, even in the huge, pink woolly jumper swaddling her. Around her neck is a signature red bandana that girls wear to indicate that they are working the street. I see the tie poking through a curtain of her hair.

The tops of her long legs are covered in a worn pencil skirt while the rest of her bottom half is dressed in nude stockings, held up by a pair of suspender belts which are visible only when she walks. I may have only seen her from the back, but she seems perfect. It’s just her face that worries me.

I inaudibly alert the other boys to my findings, beckoning them over to take my equipment so I might be able to actually talk to the girl, or at the very least, catch up with her. Pete helps me sling off the huge round case holding part of Ringo’s drums, while Lou takes the metal stand, a long pole, out of my hand. Feeling weightless and freed, I rush to the girl’s side.

Her profile is quite perfect. She has a very soft look, make up heavily applied, but a pretty face beneath it. Her eyes look wide with huge, black lines drawn around them, her eyelashes painted with clumping mascara. She looks like a tart, but not an awful one. When she sees me, she rolls her round eyes, showing me her whole, heart-shaped face. Her hair is parted at the side, falling over part of her face, almost covering one eye. Her cheeks are reddened, rounded and smooth, not a blemish in sight. No doubt she’s wearing some kind of thick, nude make-up that covers it, but it’s such a good job I’m inclined to ignore it.

“Ja?” She huffs in a strong German accent.

“Do you speak English?” Wise first question, if you ask me.

She looks a little more nervous all of a sudden, “A little. What is it you want?”

“Your services.”

Her eyes shoot from side to side, “Yes?”

“Yeah, please. But it’s for a friend.”

Her eyebrows rise up her forehead, under her fringe, “For a friend? What friend?”

“His name is George, he’s a… he hasn’t had…”

“A virgin?” She finishes my sentence.

“Yeah.” I say, thankful that she speaks enough English for this not to be painful. “Look, our hotel is just down the street, if I give you the name of it, could you be there at…”

“Slower, please!” She cuts in, ordering me in her loud voice.

“I give you name of hotel,” I say loudly, “You be there 5am.”

“5am. Ok.”

I seek out a sheet of paper- finding a schedule that has been stuck to Ringo’s drum set case since they got here- and I write down the name of our hotel for the girl. She nods, repeating the time over and over. As I leave, smiling at my friends who have walked in front of us, the girl winks as she walks to the other side of the road.

“You will pay me, won’t you?” She yells.

“As much as you like, luv.”

Mission, accomplished.

Taking my equipment back from the other boys, I practically sprint to the club. They all try to keep up with me, asking me dozens of questions.

“You think she’ll be good?”

“What time did you say?”

“Where are we meeting her?”

I don’t answer any of them. I’ll tell Georgie when we get to the club. Fuck, I’m excited again! I love being like this, when the rest of my problems can lick my arse, because something is going right for me. It rarely happens, but when it does, it’s worth waiting for. Georgie’s going to have the time of his life.

The Club is roaring by the time we get in. A small Jukebox is replacing us for now. The audience delight in seeing us, who they well know now as the Beatles and the Hurricanes. They like live music, not crackling records on a quiet player.

After slinging our stuff on stage and setting it all up, we head into the back room. Rory Storm is up first. They pat us on our backs fondly as we all do each night.

“See you out there.” Ringo says as he walks away from George. They had been sitting together. In the split second that he leaves the space, I take it up, tossing my arm over George’s shoulders.

“Guess what, luv?”

“What?” I think he knows what’s coming. He groans, trying to duck out of my grasp.

I pull him towards me tighter. “I got you a chick, a nice one, too. She’s meeting us at the Hotel at five.”

He makes a pained expression over at Pete, who’s smiling smugly. “What’s her name?”

“Her name?” I laugh, “You don’t need to know her name. You’re gonna fuck her, not marry her.” Pete bursts out laughing too. I look over at Stu, he’s quietly ignoring us.

Then I realise that something is missing… someone… Paul. I didn’t see him on the way in. He might’ve been in the loo, but for this long? I don’t know. I don’t care, because he was being an absolute dick earlier. He pretends to know me so well, to read me like a book. He hasn’t the faintest idea what’s going on in my mind. He thinks that I’m… what… in love with Stu? Stu was just a close friend. We’re allowed to have those, right? I mean, he has George. But Stu means nothing like that to me anymore. Paul can be more of a jealous dick than I can, on occasion, which is just not right, given that I am the Alpha, the biologically structured possessive, jealous type. He has no excuse.

I ignore my negative thoughts and get back to George.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, “I haven’t seen her yet.”

“I mean, what do you think…”

“Did you see Paul?” He interrupts.

I feel my expression harden, “No, why?”

His eyes dart over to Stu, though Stu isn’t looking our way. I can’t catch either of their gazes. George is oddly quiet, it just hit me now that he’s not being his jokey self. I could chalk that up the fact that I’ve been bullying him all day about him being a virgin, but now that he brought this up.

What is it about Stu? I see it two ways. Either both of them know something because they both remained here while Pete, some of the Hurricanes and I went back to the hotel, or there is something going on between Stu and Paul. Though I doubt very much it’s like _that_ , my mind can’t shake the prying thought,

“Georgie, why did you ask that?” I query.

He hesitates before he can answer, “Because…” He doesn’t look at me, his eyes shoot to the door. I see in the reflection of his dark pupils that someone is in the doorway.

Paul stands there. I want to believe that he was just in the toilet, but George’s worried tone speaks every suspicion that I have.

“Where have you been?” I demand.

He stands up straighter and widens his eyes, “None of your fucking business, prick.”


	14. George

“George,” Ringo’s gentle, low voice reaches my ears from across the room without having to raise the volume, “Stop pacing.”

Was I pacing? Oh, I’m a little nervous. I know that John is searching for a girl as we speak. A girl for me to lose my virginity to. I feel a weird mixture of dread and anticipation, like proper excitement. I listen to Ringo, smiling softly at him, “Sorry.” I sit on the edge of the newly polished stage. He comes over to sit next to me. There’s not much more to clean up. Paul is setting up the single mic the Club provides behind us, while Stu and Ty are throwing the last of the rubbish away, hauling black bin liners out to the street. None of them mind much if we take a short rest, especially since all we really need to do is set up the instruments of which we do not have just yet. That is what John, Pete, Lou, Rory and Johnny have gone to get.

Ringo nudges me. He’s lit two cigarettes, one for me and one for him. I take mine between my fingers, helplessly melting into his hands. How can he not see what his kindness is doing to me?

“You’re looking nervous.” He observes.

I nod, “Just a little. I doubt they’ll find anyone, but if they do…”

“Georgie,” He nudges me again, this time, playfully, “You’re scared about having sex? You? Really? You have no reason to be scared. Women will come just by looking at you.” We laugh together. No way he really thinks that. I give him a sceptical glance. “No, seriously!” He insists, “You’re a real catch. And if you want some tips…” He gestures at himself, as though I should ask him.

For being such a smug dick, I decide to make fun of him, “I should ask John?”

He takes it in good humour, thank God, because I really don’t want to upset him. Then again, he takes a little dig at my joke, so I’m sure he can take a bit of mocking, “John only knows what he’s doing with guys. You might end up putting it in the wrong hole if you ask John.”

We crack up. When I open my eyes after squeezing them tight shut in hysteria, I realise that Paul has come to sit with us. He doesn’t look quite as happy as we do.

“Hey Paulie,” I greet him. He’s sitting on the other side of Ringo.

“Hi.” His voice is quiet and far away. He’s probably thinking about John. John shouted at him earlier. They’ve had another ruck. These two never seem to be able to talk, they just shout. They shout their feelings at one another. They shout insults at one another. It’s only when they’re not feeling and have run out of insults when they talk in neutral voices, and its only during sex when they whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Yes, I know that last bit for a fact. Don’t ask how…

“Are you ok, George?” He asks me, “Do you actually want to do this whole hooker thing?” It’s weird that he’s worrying about me.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I shrug it off. I don’t really want to tell Paul that I’m scared for it, if John actually does find someone. I’m happy with only Ringo knowing, “It’s a cool first lay.”

I giggle, but Paul doesn’t. He nods with a half-arsed smile on his lips. I want to ask him what’s up, but I suspect he’s trying to distract himself.

The owner of the Star walks in at that moment and tells us to put some music on. He’s going to start letting people in. I check the time. I didn’t realise how late it was. Lunch seems like it was only an hour ago. It’s now 9 o’clock. Outside is all dark. The Owner switches off the main lights, turning on instead the special stage spot lights and the bar ones too. Stu goes over to put on a record while the rest of us get into the backstage. We’re not that interested in partying tonight. Well, none of us except Paul, weirdly.

“I’m going to go and get a drink, do you lot want?”

He’s met with a chorus of ‘no thanks.’ We’ll go out and get some if we fancy. Right now, I just want to sit. I want to stay sitting with Ringo. He stops me from worrying about tonight. He makes me laugh.

He’s dressed in a dark button up whose colour I have forgotten as I was not paying too much attention to it when it was light enough to see. His trousers must be a similar colour too. His hair is perfectly combed back. I think he has a comb in his back trouser pocket, because there is no way he’s keeping his hair so clean-like without one. I never think of him as the type to care much about his appearance. I like the idea that he does, sometimes, like to dress up

“What are you grinning at?” I realise I’ve been looking at him indiscreetly.

I lean in to speak closer to his ear. The place is really loud, not because of the music, but because of the chatter. The club fills like the pint glasses at the bar. “I was wondering if you wanted to come and get a beer with me. We can bring it back here.” I don’t really want a drink. I don’t know why, but I just want to be with Ringo, to get up and walk with him. He nods and we walk out into the audience.

Oh yes, now I remember why I like walking around with Ringo. I feel his hand on my back, guiding me and keeping close to me as we walk through piles of people. I close my eyes for a second to feel his hand, the tips of his gentle fingers, the encouraging touch, against my clothed skin. I bet he does those assuring touches when he’s having someone, you know, to make them feel loved and wanted.

We drift off to the bar, order drinks, then laugh as we each take a sip before weaving our way back to backstage. As we go, though, I spot Paul in the crowd.

Odd. As I said, I didn’t think any of us felt much like partying, least of all Paul. He seemed dismayed about the fight with John. Yet, here he is, dancing. And I see him flash one of those famous smiles at a girl in front of him. She waltzes over to him and they dance together. I even see him reach up to whisper in her ear. I haven’t seen him pull that trick since our Quarrymen days back in Liverpool. Even though he was one of the youngest, he certainly was not one of the most innocent.

Ringo sees that I have stopped and stands behind me. I feel his breath against my neck as he says, “What are you looking at?”

I turn to him, “Hold on a sec. Would you take this…” I hand him my glass of drink, “I’m just going to speak to Paul. You can go back if you like.”

I hate to make Ringo leave without me, but I have to see what’s going on. Paul is not the type to cheat on John… is he? I know that they both used to have many a girl back in Liverpool, but I didn’t think that they were together for very long before we came here. Like, I always thought they’re relationship was a bit of fun when they couldn’t find a nice girl to have. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is ok, and John won’t blow up about it, but I have to find out.

“Paul,” My voice barely gets his attention over the sound of everyone else talking. Still, he taps the girl, who he is dancing with, on the shoulder to let her know that he’ll be back. Her smile is nice, but her eyes are intensely passionate. I bet she plays a proper sweet girl, but is not so adorable in bed. “I know I’m probably jumping to conclusions here, but you do kind of look like you’re coming on to that chick.” I gesture over at her.

“That’s because I am.” Paul states, matter-of-factly.

I’m, for a moment, speechless. Maybe I was right in thinking that John might be ok with this, but I just can’t see it. I can’t see him being ok, when he’s so possessive over Paul, when even his touches or kisses seem to say, ‘this is mine, no one else can have him.’ “Won’t John mind?”

Paul sighs loudly, “I hope he does mind, because I mind being used for his fucking scheme to get Stu to stay, or to make him jealous or whatever. I’m going to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to talk about it? Even if you have to talk to me. Wouldn’t that be better than cheating?” I suggest, in a minor panic.

Paul shrugs, “I’m not thinking about it, ok? I’m doing exactly what John does. I’m doing what I feel like doing.” And before I can say much more, he’s turned back to his bird, taking her hand and spun her around with that ‘sweep me off my feet’ charm. There’s nothing more I can do. I bloody well hope this doesn’t go to hell for him. I start to work my way back to the room backstage. All my fears of having my first girl has been put on hold in favour for worrying about Paul and John.

They’ve always been so good together. I know they shout and I know they get pissed off and I know that everything isn’t perfect, but they couldn’t be with anyone other than each other. No relationship is perfect anyway. They seem to be the closest thing to a real one, though. They love, passionately and they give no shits about how anyone else sees them. They told all their friends that, if they’re not ok with it, they can piss off out of their lives. Now that shows they have real balls and love way stronger than any of us could even understand at our age.

As I hold up the curtain hanging in front of the backstage doorway, I look back for a second to seek out Paul in the mass of people. I see him. He’s dragging that chick off to the toilets. I see his gaze darting there and back. It makes me feel deeply sad that he wants to do this, but I don’t know how to stop him.

 


	15. Ringo

From comedy to drama, these last few days have flipped Hamburg on its head. What once was a messy, all-boys holiday where we carelessly did as we pleased- a very nice change from the strict rules at Butlins or the all-too familiar streets of Liverpool where everyone knows you- has now turned into a disordered pile of emotions. While I feel as though I’m falling for my friend, George, it looks as though John and Paul, the dear lovers of our two groups, is falling out of love with one another as they fight almost constantly. I don’t know, everything just feels quite… well, I’ll be honest; it feels like we are one big, confusing, dysfunctional family, all on a never-ending holiday. 

George is my escape from it all. We don’t get much time to be properly alone, so we make do with what we have, times when no one is paying attention to us, times when we’re laughing at our own, private jokes. 

Tired after cleaning the stage for tonight’s gig, we sit on the edge of it and I light a cigarette for him. He seems a bit anxious about losing his virginity; something that I bet feels strange when others are planning it for him. I think having someone for the first time should be more personal, more intimate, more spontaneous, because it feels right in the moment, not because your friends want you to do it. 

He was pacing, so I told him to calm down. I sat next to him and we had a smoke together. He looked very handsome with smoke spilling from his kissable lips. His hair is long and tousled. His scrawny body is fitted into a tight black outfit, the trousers of which are mock leather. When we’re asked to go backstage, I stay with him and we sit against one of the walls, sitting cross-legged by each other’s side. 

Paul, who had also been sitting on the stage, now is loitering in the middle of the room as though he is wondering what to do. I want to offer a seat next to me, since he seems just a little lost, but he quickly gathers himself, working out where he wants to be. 

Apparently, he wants to be drinking, which I can’t blame him for. If I’d just had a fight with my partner, I’d be guzzling alcohol down by the minute until I could barely remember that I had a partner, never mind having an argument with them.

“I’m going to go and get a drink, do you lot want?” He asks. 

I wait for George to answer. I want to stay with him tonight, since he is a bit nervous. I’ll try and distract him from his reservations. He says ‘no thanks’ so I parrot him, along with the others in the room. It seems that none of us really are up for having yet another crazy night. We’ve had so many and now we have some sadness hanging over our fun in the form of one of our friends leaving the band soon, and two of our friends- or three, I guess- are fighting. 

I am pretty sad that Stu is leaving, but I have yet to properly come to terms with it. It still feels like just an idea, something he wants to do, but won’t, not yet. I mean, he’s still here, so it fools me into thinking he always will be. What will the Beatles be like without him? I can’t imagine only four of them on stage. We’ve always been a clunky group of 10, 5 in each band. I guess I’m just used to it and change is a difficult thing to accept.

So, I ignore it. I look at George and am so glad that he is here, unchanging, for the most part happy. I catch him looking at me, smiling, almost laughing.

“What are you grinning at?” I say. 

He seems to snap out of his trance like state. He leans in and says over the sound of the chatter from outside, “I was wondering if you wanted to come and get a beer with me. We can bring it back here.”

It’s a bit strange, since he said no to Paul asking is he wanted a drink, but I don’t question it, “Sure, let’s go.” And we trail out into the club where people are dancing to tinny sounding Jukebox music. I hope John and Rory get back soon. I may not really want to perform tonight, because I’d rather hang out with George for the night, but I prefer seeing live music than I do the dull, old, same old records. The best thing about having live bands is that no two songs are the same, even with Rory chastising us from playing improvised tracks, we can’t play exactly how the real, established artists do. We have to make do with what we know, making versions that sound similar, the lyrics- when you can actually hear them- are most the same, but it is merely an imitation, not an exact, blemish-free copy.

As I follow George, out of habit, I place my hand against his back. It’s just a natural reaction when I’m walking behind someone because I want to stay near them, George especially. I realise that I’m going it and I place my hand by my side, but when I do so, George looks back, as though he’s lost me. He beams at me when he sees I’m still shadowing him. I wonder if he liked having the security of my touch there. When he turns back around, I do it again. He doesn’t react, so I keep my fingers brushing against him.

The bartender is a huge German guy with light grey stubble dotting his chin. He’s often sunk back into the shadows of the bar, waiting for someone to call him over, but when we get there, he’s been serving a girl who is quite conservatively dressed in her navy blue skirt and shirt with a similarly coloured bow-shaped collar. She obviously recognises us as the musicians who play here, so she stops talking to the Bartender and smiles shyly at her shoulder. I give her a wink.

George orders. The Bartender sighs. I bet he’s annoyed that we’ve ripped him of the opportunity to chat up this chick, seen as she no longer seems interested in him. Her eyes are running over George, no doubt taking in that mixture of youth and maturity, or the thinnest of his body that makes him seem taller than he is.

I’m not sure if George actually sees her, because he spina round the opposite way so that his back is facing her, and he hands me a glass of beer. This is going to be dead fun trying to take it back to the room backstage without dropping any. To get a good head start, I take a sip so that it’s not threatening to spill over the rim just by the unsteadiness of my hands. When I look up, I see George is doing the same thing.

Great minds think alike. So alike, in fact, that we both find it funny at the exact same point. We laugh, trying not to double over in giggles, risking spilling the drinks before we’ve even taken one step. Then, we hold the glasses with two hands and announce that we’re coming through the crowd, which, unfortunately, falls on deaf ears.

I’m leading this time. I spin, duck and gasp my way through people, my eyes on the glass clasped in my hands. I pave a path for George, because it’s easier being behind someone when you’re trying to get past a load of people, but I suddenly see, in my peripheral vison, someone closing the space I had made for the young Beatle, getting directly behind me. I look back, stopping in my tracks to wait for him.

He does not emerge, however. Curiously, I step back a bit to see where he has gone off to. I find him standing, just staring down through the crowd, facing the wall 90 degrees from where we were heading. I stand right behind him, which catches his attention. He peers over his shoulder to see me, probably thankful that I’m not some creepy stranger who’s taken a liking to him. I try to follow his gaze.

“What are you looking at?” I inquire. I’m slightly shorter than him, so I see just a bit less than he can. It also doesn’t help that his shoulder blocks the underside of my view.

He turns around, holding his drink outwards, “Hold on a sec. Would you take this? I’m just going to speak to Paul. You can go back if you like.”

Paul? Where is Paul? As he leaves, I step to one side to see where he is headed. I see Paul dancing with a girl. Well, that is pretty odd. Not the dancing bit, because it is quite obvious that neither participant is just interested in dancing. Paul has his full smile and wide, long-eyelashed eyes exuding charm that I know to be irresistible to girls (and John.) The girl is making eyes back at him.

Since George has gone to see what’s going on, I don’t think I should interfere too. I focus on getting these drinks out of harm’s way and into my mouth.

I wait for George in the back room in exactly the place we had been sitting before. Stu and Ty have sat on the furniture in the room and Stu is smoking. Ty is strumming one of the guitars that have already been here. I think it’s the house’s guitar that they lend to bands that can’t bring theirs. I can’t hear what he’s playing. I don’t think he can either. He looks bored, sitting there on the rickety, old, wooden chair, sighing to himself and lazily placing his fingers over strings in an idle, unfamiliar set of chords. I sip my drink and offer some to the other two. They turn it down.

“Not in the mood?” I ask

They both shake their heads.

“I should be having fun on my last few days here.” Stu huffs, “But I just don’t feel like it.”

“That’s ‘cause John’s being a dick about it.” Ty reminds him. He just sounds bored. Maybe he wants to be performing.

“He’ll get over himself eventually, Stu. You know he will.” I say, optimistically, but he shakes his dark locks of hair in disappointment.

“I know him and he’s bloody good and keeping grudges.”


	16. Paul

I’m actually a dick. I should not be doing this. I feel the girl’s dainty wrist in my hand and it feels wrong. I haven’t touched a girl like this since I was 16 and back in Liverpool, at least, I have not touched a girl with the intent that I have now. Though I have my reservations, there’s no stopping me. My legs, my hands, my eyes have minds of their own. They’re doing as they please, as the jealousy coursing through me puppeteers me to do.

We get into the loos. There is no one in there. We both dart straight for an empty stall. It’s the second one from the furthest end. She goes in first and I shut the door, locking it with over confidence.

The girl is an Alpha. This is also why it’s so wrong. If John were to find out that I’m about to be knotted by another Alpha, he’d go on a murderous rampage. But I want him to find out. I want him to be hurt the way that he hurts me, and the way that he hurts Stu. He uses sex as a weapon, so I’ll fight that fire with fire. I can see us both getting burnt, but I ignore that pressing thought in favour of snogging the lips off the chick. She wraps her arms around my back, then moves them up to cling to my shoulders. She, sometimes, moves her hands to push my neck forward, thus forcing me to kiss her harder. She tastes nothing like John.

“Paul… was it?” She gasps, pulling away but keeping her locked arms around me. I nod, breathless. “Oh Paul.” She kisses my neck while opening my shirt. I look up to the ceiling, trying to enjoy it. Her hands run tenderly over my skin. She knows what she’s doing. I have no idea, on the other hand. I don’t know why I’m here, why I’m choosing to fuck up my relationship, why I’d choose this way to do so, why…

“Would you like me to knot you, Paul?” It sounds like something John would say, that is, if John had a falsetto, German voice with femininity and sexuality dripping from each word. I can’t. I can’t go that far.

“Um… no?”

The girl looks stunned. It occurs to me that I don’t even know her name. I could ask, but it looks like she’s about to walk out on me. She can’t quite believe that a horny little Omega doesn’t want her knot.

“Was?” I gather that to be German for ‘what?’ I’ve heard it used many a time. You’d think I’d pick up more German out here, but I don’t listen enough. I look into the girl’s hazel-nut eyes. Strands of her caramel-coloured hair is everywhere, sticking to her sweat soaked forehead or curling around her cheeks in thinning clumps. The ends touch her shoulders, brushing them with one, uniform sweep inwards. She’s quite pretty, quite gorgeous. If I don’t have her, someone else might get very lucky tonight.

Incidentally, however, she’s kneeling at my feet, not anyone else’s. I’ve come all this way, broken all the rules of being in a relationship, I’ve practically cheated on John, because I’ve thought about having her, I’ve almost had her. There’s no point in ending it here and pretending that I’m such a virtuous person who would never touch another human apart from their lover.

“Suck me off, will you, Luv?” I ask, the words tasting horrible in my mouth. The girl looks a little disappointed, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing into sleek, black-painted balls of judgment as she unbuttons the rest of my shirt and gets to work on my trousers. To make her feel better, I place my index finger under her chin and guide her gaze up to meet mine. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

She grins. She has very red lips. Wide, red lips. They’ve been painted with matt lipstick, making them look bigger, fuller. I’ve kissed them. They are not as large as I would’ve liked.

Still, they do wonders around my member. Fuck. I fling my head backwards and place my hand on the wall to steady myself.

All the while, my mind is off elsewhere. It’s thinking of John. Being with John, sleeping by his side, tightly packed next to him and the wall. I feel the contrast of my front being cold, being pressed against the icy wall, while my back is wonderfully warm, being enveloped in John’s heat. A few nights ago, we’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else. We had the bed to ourselves for a total of ten minutes. Any second we can get to be alone, or pretend to be alone, we take without hesitation. On this night, he held me so tightly that I forgot where we were. I forgot that we were in a different country. I forgot that we were with our friends. There were even several of said friends in the room at the time, but they didn’t cross my mind, not for a second. I was balled up, pressing my head against John’s chest. Even if my eyes were open, I wouldn’t be able to see anything, because I was blindfolded by the shirt he was wearing. The fabric conformed to the shape of my face and were kept there, because John held me so tight.

These thoughts may not be so sexual, but it was to these that I was getting off, not to the look of the girl or the lips around me. That is a sight I cannot handle, especially not when I think of John.

I climax with John’s image imprinted in the insides of my eyelids, his silhouette floating in front of me as though I had just seen him, surrounded by a bright light. When I open my eyes, the girl is grinning up at me, waiting for her turn.

“What would you like me to do?” I ask her. I sound so pathetic. Never in my life have I asked a girl- or any partner for that matter- what they want me to do to them. It’s instinct usually, or skill. Obviously, the girl isn’t best impressed with my question.

She raises one thin, rakish eyebrow, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” She hisses.

Well, I take this opportunity as my way out, “No, I don’t. I’m… actually with someone. I’m sorry, I have to go.”

She looks distraught as I place myself back into my trousers and button up my shirt. “With somebody!” She exclaims. I discreetly unlock the door behind my back. “So, you were just looking for a cheap thrill?” She shoves me, hard into the door that I’d opened just ajar. It slams back, almost breaking with my body weight falling into it. “There’s plenty of girls who would do this and wouldn’t feel shit for it after. You _arschloch!_ ”

I run. I high tail it out of the cubical and back into the club. I can hear the girl following me, so I make a b-line for backstage.

But as I go to run through the curtain, I catch a glimpse of John sitting next to George. Fuck!

On stage is Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. When did they get back? They’re playing a song which drowns out any chatter. I see Ringo giving the drums a good beating, Rory giving the stage a good stress test as though he’s trying to break this one too. Ty and Johnny’s fingers are working so quickly they look like cartoon characters sped up. They must be quite far into their first or second song, which means they must’ve been back twenty minutes or so. Fuck! As if I couldn’t swear enough.

I run my fingers through my hair and take a peek at my refection in a blackened window. It must be late, because it’s almost pitch-black outside. I can just about see a few people wandering up to the line outside, wanting to get it. Otherwise, I can see nothing, but myself, makeing a good mirror. I don’t look awful, I don’t think I look like I’ve just been blown off, but I can feel myself leaking a little. I had no time to wipe myself up.

As I stride into the backstage room, I pray to God for John not to smell the slick that has wet my behind. I take a breath and try to act normal.

Well, try to act pissed off, because that was how I was feeling before.

“Where have you been?” John immediately interrogates me, sounding angry. Does he know? How could he know?

I grind my teeth, “None of your fucking business,” I say, then add with a level of confidence I have rarely mustered, “Prick.”

John’s expression changes instantly, “What did you just say?” He spits, drawing himself up from the floor. George is watching, worried. His eyes dart from John to me and back again with increasing speed. I think Pete and Stu are watching too, but they are standing too far behind me to see properly.

“I said, ‘Prick.’” I repeat. I can tell this is a bad idea already.

“Have you forgotten my proper address?” He asks. I really don’t want to call him Alpha in front of our friends. They know what he is to me, they don’t need me to outright say it. I bet he’s liking this. He’s liking the idea that I’m going to humiliate myself by calling him ‘Alpha.’

Too bad, I’m not going to play into his little power games. I’m too far gone for submitting to him now. “I haven’t. I just said it.”

I see John’s blood boil in his cheeks, “You fucking little Omega. You’re going to tell me where you’ve been or I’m going to fucking…”

“Oh,” I break in calmly, “You want to know where I’ve been. I’ve been in the toilets,” His brow furrows, “…with this chick…” His eyes widen. I hear George warn me to stop. I can’t, “… who was on her knees, sucking me off.” Boy do I feel shit for saying it.

But the reaction from John isn’t… bad. He pauses, like a scratched record, then his head jerks back, “Is that it?” He asks.

“Yeah…” I say. I’ve lost all capacity to sound smug or angry. I’m just confused.

John seems the same. “So, you got blown by a chick...?”

“Yeah…” I parrot myself.

John slowly brings his head up to nod, “And you thought that would…?”

I hear snickers from everyone around me. I can’t help but grin a little, confused still. John’s smiling too. “I thought that would… upset you… John…”

He nods quicker, crossing his arms in front of his chest and making a mock thinking face. I feel like I’ve failed at something. I think this hasn’t quite had the effect I wanted on John. I look down at George. He’s looking as confused at John’s reaction as I am.

“We’ll get to why you wanted to upset me in a later, but you wanted to do it by… having a girl suck you off?”

“Yeah,” I clarify. Doesn’t that sound bad? Doesn’t that sound… like cheating?

“Er… all I have to say to that is…”


	17. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erm, the one thing that bothers me about this chapter is the fact that I mention 'I Saw Her Standing There'  
> I don't know if Paul had written it at the time, but I very much doubt that he actually did play it at the Star Club or anywhere in Hamburg, because I read somewhere that it made its debut in the Cavern   
> Oh I don't know. I can be a bit nitpicky at times

I thought he’d gone and got fucked some Alpha. I was sure of it. I was so angry and heartbroken.

But this is just laughable. I know it shouldn’t be. Anyone else would count getting oral from someone as cheating, but I did way worse when Paul and I were together back in Liverpool, and he knew about it and he was ok with it.

I remember coming out of loos or cupboards with some girl, her make-up streaked, half of it on me, her clothes ripped open, underwear showing, and there Paul would be, waiting for me outside. He’s ask me how it went. He’d laugh with me. I’d help him get some girls so that he wouldn’t feel so left out. If anything, I was both a dickhead and the kindest Alpha there ever has been.

As long as he didn’t have someone else’s knot locked up into him, I’m ok.

It was cute to see him try and look smug, to see him try and be all confident despite how obviously guilty he felt. Those huge, chocolate irises gazing at me, trying to say he was sorry, as well as ‘up yours’

But he felt guilty? About what? Of course, I’m not happy that he wanted to upset me, but I’m too relieved and it’s too funny to think too much on that now. I refrain from laughing as I say;

“Er… all I have to say to that is, where is this chick? Can I have a go on her?”

Pete is the first to start laughing. I’m second. Paul and George are next, once they realise that I’m actually ok with it. I don’t know if Stu has looked up once since I’ve been in the room. I walk up to Paul and clap my hand around the back of his neck softly, squeezing it fondly. He looks guiltily into my eyes. His long eyelashes bat, waiting for me to forgive him. I kiss his wonderful lips as I’ve been wanting to do, even though I’m pissed off at him after what he said earlier. I’ll remember that soon enough, but I think we both need to talk anyway.

I’ve realised that, if he’s gone as far as to try and upset me, perhaps we should talk about why and… well, talk about why I’ve been arse-y, because I know I have. I always know I when I’m being a dick, I just don’t know how to stop. It’s Stu and the leaving thing and… I may have some abandonment issues that only Paul will understand. I may not be looking forward to pouring my pathetic heart out with flowery, cliché words onto Paul’s attentive ear and all that mushy shit, but I still have to do it. 

“So, you’re not mad at me?” Paul asks.

Still laughing, I reply, “Oh, I’m mad at you for earlier, but I can’t be mad at you for scoring.”

He chuckles, then looks serious for a second. He looks from side to side at our friends and says, “I didn’t like it, John.” He addresses Stu, Pete and George, “Sorry guys for saying this but, John, I don’t want to be with anyone else but you. You may not agree with this, but could we try and…”

“You want to be exclusive?” I offer. He nods. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this, but I can’t say ‘yes’ quick enough to him. Around us, instead of cringing or wincing, our friends clap. “I think we should seal this Hollywood moment with a kiss,” I laugh, “What do you say?”

Paul doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and kisses me, thrusting his tongue straight into my mouth. He’s so bloody needy.

I say that, but I’m running my hand up his spine, under his leather jacket and his button up shirt. I’m feeling the smoothness of his flesh. I could have him here, now, but something tells me that he’s not up for it. I think it’s because he’s already had it off with someone else. That stings, the idea of him not needing me, but now that we’re exclusive, I can go full on possessive Alpha on him. I kiss him deeper.

While we’re kissing, Rory Storm and The Hurricanes come in. Someone tells them to start clapping. They all do so, gesturing their hands towards us, though they have no idea why.

“Lover reunion?” Asks Johnny.

Paul looks adorable when he peers over his shoulder. His eyes are rounded with embarrassment as his cheeks fill with gentle colour. I play with his baby hairs on the back of his neck.

“Almost,” I say, “We’ve still got some stuff to straighten out,” I bring his gaze back to me, “Don’t we?”

Paul sounds so small as he replies, “Yes, Alpha.”

Fucking hell. Can he truly make such a simple word so filthy?

I guess that’s what I love him for.

Breaking our perfect moment, Rory steps in, “Y-you know they’re… waiting for you… to g-go on stage.” He reminds us.

Grabbing our stuff, us Beatles begin to head out. However, I have to have one last word. I step mostly out of the door, but peer back in. I seek George out with my eyes and grin at him, a devilish wink gaining his attention. He’s following Paul, still mostly in the room. I make sure that everyone is listening when I announce, “Don’t think that we’ve forgotten about your special night tonight, luv.”

He audibly groans.

Do you know what’s funny about being on stage? All the world can bow at my feet and all my problems could, in sync, step into the place, and I couldn’t give less of a damn. When I’m on stage, all I care about is the guitar in my hands, my voice and my bandmates. There could be storms wreaking havoc outside or people beating each other up on the dance floor. I wouldn’t even look twice at any of it.

Paul told me something one of the first times we met. I said that he didn’t seem like much of a rock ‘n roller. There I was, in my leather jackets, plaid shirts, those teddy boy threads. My hair was always styled like Elvis, I always had a fag in my mouth. There I was, the bad boy of Liverpool in all my arrogance- that I still have not ditched- next to a weedy little kid, totally taken by his charms, stunned by his guitar-playing, in love with his singing voice and skilled hands and while some would think of me as more of a rocker, it was Paul who was better at the music. So, I observed this, that he didn’t really have the demeanour of a rocker and he said;

“But, it’s all about the music. That’s all that matters. You can act like a dick all you want if you’re any good at playing, because at least you have something to be arrogant about, but if not, you’re just a dick who has no talent.”

Since then, music (and Paul) has been my number one priority. Standing on a stage, looking out at people dancing to the sounds that I make with my little guitar or my mouth organ, it’s more exhilarating than being bad at school, or doing something illegal just to get that rush of adrenaline. You can make music until you drop, perform it until you collapse. There’s not really a danger or risk to it. It’s all fun.

It’s all about the music.

I think about Paul, about all the shit I put him through sometimes. He stands by me through everything. Why does he do that? When I shout, when I call him all the names I can think of, when I feel like I want to punch him, why does he take it?

I owe him so much, because I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t be what I’ve always wanted to be, even if we’re not quite there yet. I see Paul standing at the main mic, singing his favourite song ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ and I know that, we may not be as famous as Elvis just yet, which is what I’ve always wanted, but we’ll get there. I can see that in his words that roll off into the audience.

I’ll never learn to treat him right, but I’ll try, starting by talking to him later. This stuff with Stu and Paul thinking that I have a sort of… crush (?) on him or whatever, it’s not true. I just don’t like losing people. I really can’t stand it. I cling to those I do have, which is why I’m not going to let myself fuck up what I have with Paul.

He likes all the soppy love crap like talking about your feelings and stuff, so it’ll keep him happy, I hope.

 


	18. George

All night. All night I’ve been dreading it. I forgot about it while I was on stage, which lasted most of the night, but as soon as I was off it, I remembered. Even in the intervals where the Hurricanes would take over from us, I would be reminded that tonight it would finally happen. I will finally lose my virginity.  

I tried asking John what the girl looked like. Of course, he was never going to give me a proper answer. He told me that she looked like a pig, that she was the ugliest street walker he could find, and that was saying something, because there were some really grotty girls out there that I’d seen. Not to judge them, but you’ve got to have some kind of physical attraction to get much work, no?  

It scares me to think that he couldn’t find anyone reasonably attractive, so just went for the most average looking of all the ones he’d seen. Oh, I don’t mean to be so picky and nasty and shallow, but I am about to lose my virginity to a prostitute who I’m probably never going to see again. I want the memories I have of her to be good, not memories of the ceiling because I was looking there the whole time instead of at her face or body.  

We’re out on the street now. The club is still booming in the background, muffled by the meters we’ve put between it and us. It’s the early hours of the morning. Everywhere is still dark, but there is a peek of sun in the distance, waking the horizon with soft shades of deep blue rather than its current inky purple. I’m hungry. I realise that I haven’t had dinner. I want breakfast. There are many a small café around. I want piles and piles of toast, lashings of butter to go on top… 

Ok, I’m just trying to distract myself. I’m half planning what I’m going to do by listing all the things I think I know how to do. I could ask John… or more safely, Paul, about how to do certain things, but I have too big an ego. I don’t want my friends to patronise me or take credit for what will be my work. John is talking about being in there when I do it. I try to discourage him, but he’s planning it. Everyone who doesn’t want to see has to go up to The Hurricane’s room. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” I shout, finally getting a word in over everyone else’s, “Since I’m the one going to be completely humiliated by this whole thing, couldn’t I decide who is allowed to sit in, if you must?” 

John, who is, for some reason, the leader of all this, considers it. Eventually, he agrees, “Ok, but I better have a place, since I planned this all.” 

I allow him to be there. We’ve been friends for long enough that I know he’s actually rooting for me, even if he is also having his own fun on the way. I ask Paul if he wants to be there, because he provides real support, and he says yes, then I look around at the others who are waiting desperately for my verdict. Pete is looking desperate, he wants to be picked, but I couldn’t imagine having him there. Stu really doesn’t seem like he wants to watch. He almost avoids all eye contact and smiles awkwardly. I don’t know about Rory, who’s shyness around girls because of his stutter means that he dislikes any potential contact with girls- even though girls love him. Ty, Johnny and Lou look eager.  

Then there is Ringo. I both want him there, and don’t. It’ll be huge embarrassing for so many reasons, too many- I’d have to list them should I want to think of them all.  

But there is no one else here that makes me feel as safe as him.

“Ringo?”

“You want me there?” He asks. Behind me, I hear John and Lou wolf whistling, the high pitched sound echoing around the streets eerily.

I ignore them, “If it won’t be too weird for you.”

“It’ll be weird for us all,” John pipes up, “So that’s settled, Paul, Ringo and I are going to get some live porn tonight and all you lonely lot will have to piss off upstairs.”

There’s a chorus of disappointed groans. Boy do I hope there won’t be any disappointed groans tonight…

I see the hotel up front. There, outside the front door, the figure of a woman stands, her long legs making a pleasing triangle shape as she leans on one, the other bent in front of her. I can’t see much else. She appears to be wearing a heavy jumper. It is cold out here. At least she cares more about her health and comfort than about looking really sexy in overly tight, but impractical clothing.

Christ, I’m such a nerd.

It might not be her, my girl for the night. There is every chance. She doesn’t look much like how I envisioned a whore, nor does she seem like those who wander the streets every night. Granted we are too far away for me to see too much, for me to really size her up, but it soothes my worries to think that she may just be a guest at the hotel, or is waiting for someone, or is a totally unrelated prostitute.

Then, all those comforting thoughts are ruled obsolete when John nudges me and nods towards the girl. We’re a bit closer now and I can see that she has long, black hair. Then again, it could be any dark coloured hair, because, in this light, even John’s fair strands look black.

“That’s her. She’s a looker, wouldn’t you say?”

My heart is pounding away at my chest as though Pete were drumming on it, “I can’t tell from here.” I mutter.

I want to melt away into the dust that dances in the beams of light coming from the street lamps. I want to bury my head in Ringo’s lap and not look up until morning, or until I wake up from this nerve-wracking dream. This may be the strangest wet dream I’ve ever had, if that is all it is. I doubt it very much, though, because Paul comes up behind me and taps my back softly. I sigh. He gets it. He gives me a sympathetic smile.

“You’ll do great.” He tells me, as though I were a kid about to go up on stage in the school play. Even then, I wouldn’t be as nervous as I feel now.

We walk up to the hotel and, subsequently, the girl. John acts as if he is good friends with her. His humour doesn’t come across quite as well here as it does in England. The girl gives him an irritated side glance.

Oh God. She doesn’t look much like an Alpha. My biggest fear of being inadequate seems to be looming over me. Me, with my tiny Omega dick, I’m not going to be able to do much to the poor girl. I don’t even have the skills to make her feel anything, because I’m a virgin. Oh, this is not going to be so fun.

“Which friend is it?” She asks. She is quite handsome. Her raven black hair looks like thick silk, falling around her shoulders. Her face is soft and rounded, well made-up. I step forward with a little help from John gripping my shirt and dragging me forward. The girl gives me an once-over. “Are you even old enough to be here?”

I open my mouth to speak, but John’s voice escapes. Thank God, I don’t have to talk, “Do you really care? Now, Rory here...” He pulls Rory by his side, “… is going to pay you. We’re all going to fuck off.”

My eight friends all trudge up the steps with words and gestures of ‘encouragement’ as they head into the hotel reception. I can still hear them as they walk up to our rooms. There are two windows along the stairwell. I can see them walking up and peering down at me.

Rory hands over some money. The girl counts it, then counts it again, repeating the name of the act of which she is being paid for.

“Ok, where are we going?” She asks me. Rory has already started going up to the room. I offer the girl my arm, but she looks as it as though it’s a piece of dog shit. Alright then… I lead the way into the hotel.

My legs feel like jelly. I bet I look really weird, wondering up the steps, using the banister to hoist me up each step, but my legs alone do not have the strength. My shaking arms have to bear some of the weight.

“What’s your name?” The girl behind me asks.

I peer over my shoulder, trying to be kind and smiley to hide how absolutely terrified I am “I’m George Harrison.”

“Ok.” End of conversation?

“What’s yours?” I offer.

“My name? I’m Marlene.” I guess she doesn’t need to bother with last names. I feel like a bit of a nerd having told her mine, like she will even remember my first name once she’s done with me.

“Marlene,” I parrot, trying to get the right pronunciation, but she gives no indication that I’ve got it right or wrong.   
Since Rory is several floors higher than us by now, I decide I might as well find out just how disappointing this first time might be. I get up to the landing and turn around to face her. She’s just a little taller than me and she looks irritated when we stop.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Haven’t you already?” I can’t tell if she’s making a joke or is genuine. I just ignore it all together.

“Are you a Beta?”

“No. I am an Alpha. Lots of the girls around here are, because we can have Betas the normal way and we can knot Omegas.” I’ve got to hand it to her, that’s smart. And I am so relieved I practically stop shaking in fear. This might not be so bad, “Why, what are you?” She adds.

I have to tell her, but I don’t want the others knowing, “I’m an Omega, but my friends don’t know.”

“Ok. I won’t say anything.”

We smile at each other. This is the first time I’ve felt anything other than awkward with her. I might actually be getting turned on.

As we walk up the next two flights of stairs up to the 7th room, which is ours, I start to gain confidence. Instead of nervously listing everything in my head that I know how to do, I think of what might make her squeal in delight the loudest. Yes, that’s turning me on quite nicely.

I don’t have the key for the room, but I guess that it’s already open. My friends are probably already hiding. My eyes scan the beds, the bathroom whose door is wide open, behind the front door. I can see no one. They’ve done a good job of making themselves unseen.

I look back at the girl. Her pink jumper had been discarded and underneath lays an emerald green bra. Her boobs are huge, making her top half very curvy, but the bottom half more boyish. She walks up with slow, dragging, sexy steps, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. Our first touch is when she presses her crotch up against me and runs her long fingers over my clothed chest. Her nails are painted a gentle green. Her touch, though, is not as gentle as the colour. She unbuttons my shirt and scratches my flesh, not so that it marks, but just enough so that I feel it. I gasp.

“I heard that you haven’t done this before.” She remarks. Having lost the ability to speak, I simply nod. “Well, then, this might just be as fun for me as it’s going to be for you.”

 


	19. Ringo

“I heard that you haven’t done this before. Well, then, this might just be as fun for me as it’s going to be for you.”

The girl is confident. I see George swooning in her arms. She unbuttons his shirt and feels that chest of his. It’s probably bare, like a baby. She then kisses him on the cheek, snogs his neck, licks his collar bone, then falls to her knees. I see her skilled fingers unhook his fly, opening up his trousers and pull them down to his knees. His eyes follow her movements wearily and desperately.

I see one of her hands clasp around him. Surely he’s had this done before. Still, he seems to be getting off on it. Her hand moves back and forward at a teasing pace. George’s gasps echo around the room.

Where am I to see all of this? Paul and I are huddled under the adjacent bed. We are pretty much hidden by the duvet that dangles over the edge of the mattress. We can see almost everything. We see even more when George sits on the bed, the empty one, and the girl repositions so that she’s kneeling between his legs. Her high-heel clad feet are so close, Paul and I have to be careful we don’t accidently touch her or get kicked by her. I see her full hand let go of George and grasp his thigh. Her head then bobs down. I take it that she now has him in her mouth.

John is hiding in the cupboard. I can almost see his eye when the low light in the room catches it the right way. His finger is hooked round one of the doors to keep it closed, but ajar enough so that he can see. Every so often, he shuffles and I pray that the girl does not see as the door shakes a little.

She tells George to lie back on the bed. He obeys. I could never see him so submissive when I imagined this situation (not that I imagined it a lot) yet he does so well to do as he’s told. He shuffles back on his butt, lying his head down on the mess of uncomfortable pillows. The girl drags off the last of his trousers, ordering that he remove his shirt himself, while she stands up and takes off her bra, her skirt and underwear. She is out of view when she undresses. I, instead, am forced to stare at George, lying obediently on the bed, his body all naked, hot and exposed, his member sitting erect against his stomach.

Ok, maybe I couldn’t care less about looking at the girl. I don’t really take much notice of her absence from the picture. I actually want to keep looking at the skinny frame of one of my best friends. I don’t even regard the girl as she strides back into sight, her pale body being shown off to her client, proudly. I give her a glance. She is pretty. She is not, however, quite like George. He’s beyond handsome, wordlessly waiting patiently. I feel like getting up, climbing over the bed under which I am hiding and taking him myself. I’d pick him up, spin him around onto all fours and have him, gently, for his first time.

I feel a familiar ache come over me, the ache of pleasure and want. I’m lying on my stomach, which becomes uncomfortable… for certain reasons, one of which being the poking feeling of something hard pressing against the top of my thighs. I shift, which is apparently too loud for Paul’s liking, because he prods me, warning me to be quiet with a stern look in his eyes.

“Sorry,” I breathe. No one hears me, so Paul deems it acceptable to talk.

“What, are you going on your rut or something?” He jokes. He can tell that I’m a bit turned on.

“Are you telling me that this isn’t hot?”

“It’s very.”

I focus back on watching again. The girl is straddling George’s hips and kneels up so that she can it him inside of her. She moans as she lowers herself onto him. He throws his head back in bliss.

She takes his hands and places them on her hips. Now he is made to control the situation. He lifts her up and thrusts up into her. He speeds up, slows down, changes the rhythm according to her cries. He’s a natural. I always knew he would be.

See, there is a part of me that feels jealous. I wanted the first go, I wanted him to have had no one but me, but he may never have me. I want to his him, to taste him all over. Christ, I think I am on my rut. I usually don’t have these thoughts about George, I try to make myself stop if ever I do.

Tonight, however, being sleep deprived, a little drunk and craving my ninth or so cigarette of the evening, I don’t have the ability to prevent myself from thinking such dirty things. I am especially susceptible when thing that I want is literally within my reach. I’m so close to George, which kills me, because I will forever be this close and never be able to touch him.

A while of thrusting, changing position and gaining speed and George climaxes. The girl cries out, first arching her back, then falling forward to nuzzle her nose in George’s neck. Everything is suddenly quiet save for the heavy breathing of the two on the bed.

Oh, and then there is the loud sound of claps, followed by a distinct cheer coming from the cupboard. Out steps John, putting is hands together and whistling at the very top of his voice. The girl turns around, falling off George’s lap onto the mattress by his side. George props himself up on his elbows. He’s breathlessly giggling.

Paul can’t help it. Since there isn’t a bad reaction from neither George nor the girl, he crawls away from our hiding place, clapping in delight. Of course, I have to follow them.

“Go Georgie!” I cheer, making him giggle harder and blush a bright scarlet.

“We all knew you could do it!” Paul chimes in.

The girl stands up in front of us all, not looking quite as pleased as George. She grasps her clothes and stands by the door, scowling at us all. “You’re all fucking mental.” She mutters, then pulls on her jumper and heads out to the stairwell.

“That we are, my luv.” John calls after her, “Right, Mr Real Man,” He addresses George, “We’re going upstairs to tell everyone, then we’re going out to celebrate, alright?”

Pushing himself up onto his feet, George agrees, but adds, “I hope you mean ‘celebrate’ as in ‘get breakfast’ because I’m starving.”

We all crack up at that. As George puts on some clothes, we have a million questions for him, most of which we merely get a light, mysterious giggle as an answer. That’s my Georgie, the mysterious, shy one. I want to talk to him, to see if I can pry some real answers out of him, but John steals him away too quickly, pushing him to the front of our little pack and coaxing him up the stairs first.

It’s only one floor to our room and, as we get on the landing for it, John starts loudly singing ‘Georgie’s gone and lost his virginity’ in a very misfitting tune that resembles Buddy Holly’s ‘Everyday.’

Before we even knock on the door, Pete has opened it, having heard us coming. George is met with more cheers, more claps, more laughs and questions.

“How was it?” Asks Johnny. He barely gets to answer, because Rory has descended on him, giving him a big bear hug. Stu gives him a friendly punch on the arm. Ty makes obscene gestures and waits for George to nod or shake his head, as though they’re making a checklist of everything he did and didn’t do. It’s a wild party with 10 of us all trying to fit in a room that’s technically only for two people, three at a stretch. I feel like I’m back at the club , weaving through people as they dance. It’s insane. Then John insists that we go out to celebrate with some breakfast, because we all are actually hungry as well. We pile out onto the landing and start wandering down the stairs.

“Hey guys,” George shouts, drawing all of our attention to him, “You know what this means?”

“What?” Everyone else choruses.

“I’m one of you lot now, for real.”

John slings an arm around his shoulder, “As if you were anything but one of us beforehand!”


	20. Paul

After all of the excitement today, here seems to be more. After a well-deserved, celebratory breakfast at 6 o’clock in the morning (the lady serving us at the café we went to thought we were insane, bouncing around the place with all the energy of well-slept boys) the 10 of us, us two bands, headed back to the hotel. Most of us, me included, are knackered. George had been rubbing his eyes red sore with his fists, which is understandable. He has not only just had his first fuck, but he has also had a fucking long day, what with performing while so nervous he was practically shaking the whole time. We also haven’t slept at all tonight. I know we woke up at 12 yesterday, but we haven’t done a really late night for a whole week. My mind is used to seeing darkness fall over the city and be ready for sleep.

However, John was unfazed by the time and lack of rest. He wasn’t ready to go to bed. He was like a kid hyped up on sweets, begging his parents to let him stay up a little later. I didn’t mind him staying up as long as I got to wrap myself in layers of warm duvet and knock out for a few hours.

Of course, John wouldn’t have that. He was insistent on having someone to be awake with him, to play cards or smoke or sit on the hotel steps, watching the sun fully rise in the morning sky. When no one else would, he invoked the catch that meant I had to stay with him.

“We still need to talk, remember.” He reminded me.

Does he really want to talk about deep, important feelings and stuff now? Now, when he seems so high he can barely focus on one thing at a time? Now, when my eyelids are so heavy, they close on their own and I have to pry them open, widening them with my fingers?

But I am forced. I’m being dragged by my dearest John to the back steps of the Hotel that lead into the office where we have never been, nor ever seen into. There is one door in the reception in the hotel that goes in there, but there are no windows, no crevices in the walls. The only reason we know it’s there is because we’ve seen people come out of it. And, let’s be honest, there must be something in the huge space between the lobby and the back wall, because the lobby is so tiny it doesn’t fit one of our bands- never mind two- in there. Back here, there are no people, probably because of the smell of the bins that are piled up against the hotel wall. It’s also a very narrow little street with not many places to access. It seems just like a slip road where people drive around, if they have a car, to check for parking spaces or something.

I’m too tired to think of that. It’s boring me half to death, or sending me to sleep. 

“You really want to talk?” I whine, taking up a place on the cold stone whose freezing temperature burns through my thin clothes, numbing my thighs. John stands up, leaning on some battered railings. Each metal slat has been caved in one way or another and dirtied with dried chewing gum and cigarette burns everywhere, yet it holds John’s weight. He lights up his own cigarette and offers me a drag. I hope it’ll wake me up a bit. I doubt it, though.

“Yeah. I wanted to tell you that…” He takes back the cigarette and takes another drag as though I am not hanging in the middle of a sentence, “…you’re all I have and I love you.”

“Great,” I try to sound enthusiastic, “I love you too. Can we go and sleep now?”

He shakes his head, “It’s not just that. I’ve been a dickhead.”

“This I know,” I quip. He gives me a dirty look.

“But I think it’s because I’m afraid of people leaving me.” He sighs. I wasn’t quite expecting anything as deep as that. It must be hard for him to admit. I put aside my complaints of being cold and tired in favour of just listening. It’s rare that he lets me into how he’s feeling, so when he does, I listen hard, even if my attention span is waning. I’d use up every last inch of consciousness to make sure I was taking in everything John has to say. He may not do the same for me, but I don’t feel like I need it. We show our love in different ways, John and I, “You know… that there have been a lot of important people in my life who have left and you and Stu are two of the most important right now. I can’t believe that he’s ok to leave when he knows how much I want him here.”

“John, I know it must feel like he’s doing it to piss you off or screw you over, but he’s looking out for himself, which is an important thing. And what I said earlier, about you liking him or loving him or whatever I said, I’m sorry, but I felt jealous because I thought you were using me to get back at him. Like I was ‘the other woman’.” I don’t even know if I’m making any sense.

He giggles a little, then the joke dies off and he becomes serious again. It’s always really odd seeing him serious. He rarely ever is. Rarely ever by his own will as well. Its eerie, “Well, I was sort of doing that, but not because I love Stu, Paulie. I do… but it’s a friend thing, or a brother thing.” Thank God, he laughs again after that, or I would’ve had to make some kind of joke myself. He laughs, “Christ, Paulie, I never knew you were the jealous type. Isn’t that meant to be my job?”

“Yes,” I giggle, crossing my arms in front of my chest to keep some of my warmth from escaping.

You forget, sometimes, that the clubs can get so hot, what with all the people dancing, sweating, writhing up against you without having meant to. Almost none of us bother wearing coats or jumpers or heavy shirts, because we always take them off when we start performing. The walks back are usually a nice breath of freezing air to cool us all down. But take the walking away, put hours between you and the club and you’re stuck, bitterly cold, the ends of your fingers or the tip of your nose numbing painfully.

But smug John doesn’t even notice. He has a jacket.

“You’re more of an Alpha than I am sometimes.”

“I know.”

We trail off into silence. The morning is brewing, spilling a bright light over the sky. It’s slowly turning a baby blue with white, wispy clouds streaked across it. One thing I love about John is that, no matter how much we fight, the good times always outweigh the bad ones, if not in frequency, then in quality. I always wish to stay in these tender moments forever- though it is freezing cold, and I’d much rather be making up with my boyfriend in the cosy confines of our bed. While it is sometimes annoying to share a bed with Stu and John, it is great for cold nights. Nights such as this one, that is actually now morning. I keep forgetting. It feels more like a lazy evening.

John still isn’t ready to go inside, so he sits next to me and finishes his cigarette. Surprisingly, he realises that I’m cold and I watch him remove his leather jacket to place around my shoulders. As I pull the two ends of the open leather closer together, I look up at him, astonished.

“You…” I gasp. He shrugs as though he does this sort of thing all the time.

I can attest to that not being the case, hence my surprise.

“You’re such a girl, Macca. You fall for every charm in the book.”

“That’s because you never whip out the charm book. It’s always nice when you do.” As we sit there, my tired, heavy head finds rest on John’s shoulder. His arm finds its way around my back, squeezing me tight. I now don’t want to go to sleep, because I want to savour every second of this.

But then, I remember something. Just one last important thing before I dip into my ‘big picture’ mind that looks at things from afar, that’ll look at this situation as though it were a picture hanging in a gallery. It’s the way I appreciate things, by looking at them as though I were a observer, merely an audience member to an odd show.

“Promise me something, John.” I say. It sounds cliché, like I’m going to ask him to love me forever, or to have more moments like this.

“Depends what it is.” He replies.

“That you’ll say sorry to Stu and be nice to him until he leaves. Then you can swear about him and tell me how he abandoned you and how much you hate him, deal?”

If a little begrudgingly, since he doesn’t like to admit when he’s wrong, John mutters, “Deal.”

After all of the excitement today, here seems to be more. After a well-deserved, celebratory breakfast at 6 o’clock in the morning (the lady serving us at the café we went to thought we were insane, bouncing around the place with all the energy of well-slept boys) the 10 of us, us two bands, headed back to the hotel. Most of us, me included, are knackered. George had been rubbing his eyes red sore with his fists, which is understandable. He has not only just had his first fuck, but he has also had a fucking long day, what with performing while so nervous he was practically shaking the whole time. We also haven’t slept at all tonight. I know we woke up at 12 yesterday, but we haven’t done a really late night for a whole week. My mind is used to seeing darkness fall over the city and be ready for sleep.

However, John was unfazed by the time and lack of rest. He wasn’t ready to go to bed. He was like a kid hyped up on sweets, begging his parents to let him stay up a little later. I didn’t mind him staying up as long as I got to wrap myself in layers of warm duvet and knock out for a few hours.

Of course, John wouldn’t have that. He was insistent on having someone to be awake with him, to play cards or smoke or sit on the hotel steps, watching the sun fully rise in the morning sky. When no one else would, he invoked the catch that meant I had to stay with him.

“We still need to talk, remember.” He reminded me.

Does he really want to talk about deep, important feelings and stuff now? Now, when he seems so high he can barely focus on one thing at a time? Now, when my eyelids are so heavy, they close on their own and I have to pry them open, widening them with my fingers?

But I am forced. I’m being dragged by my dearest John to the back steps of the Hotel that lead into the office where we have never been, nor ever seen into. There is one door in the reception in the hotel that goes in there, but there are no windows, no crevices in the walls. The only reason we know it’s there is because we’ve seen people come out of it. And, let’s be honest, there must be something in the huge space between the lobby and the back wall, because the lobby is so tiny it doesn’t fit one of our bands- never mind two- in there. Back here, there are no people, probably because of the smell of the bins that are piled up against the hotel wall. It’s also a very narrow little street with not many places to access. It seems just like a slip road where people drive around, if they have a car, to check for parking spaces or something.

I’m too tired to think of that. It’s boring me half to death, or sending me to sleep. 

“You really want to talk?” I whine, taking up a place on the cold stone whose freezing temperature burns through my thin clothes, numbing my thighs. John stands up, leaning on some battered railings. Each metal slat has been caved in one way or another and dirtied with dried chewing gum and cigarette burns everywhere, yet it holds John’s weight. He lights up his own cigarette and offers me a drag. I hope it’ll wake me up a bit. I doubt it, though.

“Yeah. I wanted to tell you that…” He takes back the cigarette and takes another drag as though I am not hanging in the middle of a sentence, “…you’re all I have and I love you.”

“Great,” I try to sound enthusiastic, “I love you too. Can we go and sleep now?”

He shakes his head, “It’s not just that. I’ve been a dickhead.”

“This I know,” I quip. He gives me a dirty look.

“But I think it’s because I’m afraid of people leaving me.” He sighs. I wasn’t quite expecting anything as deep as that. It must be hard for him to admit. I put aside my complaints of being cold and tired in favour of just listening. It’s rare that he lets me into how he’s feeling, so when he does, I listen hard, even if my attention span is waning. I’d use up every last inch of consciousness to make sure I was taking in everything John has to say. He may not do the same for me, but I don’t feel like I need it. We show our love in different ways, John and I, “You know… that there have been a lot of important people in my life who have left and you and Stu are two of the most important right now. I can’t believe that he’s ok to leave when he knows how much I want him here.”

“John, I know it must feel like he’s doing it to piss you off or screw you over, but he’s looking out for himself, which is an important thing. And what I said earlier, about you liking him or loving him or whatever I said, I’m sorry, but I felt jealous because I thought you were using me to get back at him. Like I was ‘the other woman’.” I don’t even know if I’m making any sense.

He giggles a little, then the joke dies off and he becomes serious again. It’s always really odd seeing him serious. He rarely ever is. Rarely ever by his own will as well. Its eerie, “Well, I was sort of doing that, but not because I love Stu, Paulie. I do… but it’s a friend thing, or a brother thing.” Thank God, he laughs again after that, or I would’ve had to make some kind of joke myself. He laughs, “Christ, Paulie, I never knew you were the jealous type. Isn’t that meant to be my job?”

“Yes,” I giggle, crossing my arms in front of my chest to keep some of my warmth from escaping.

You forget, sometimes, that the clubs can get so hot, what with all the people dancing, sweating, writhing up against you without having meant to. Almost none of us bother wearing coats or jumpers or heavy shirts, because we always take them off when we start performing. The walks back are usually a nice breath of freezing air to cool us all down. But take the walking away, put hours between you and the club and you’re stuck, bitterly cold, the ends of your fingers or the tip of your nose numbing painfully.

But smug John doesn’t even notice. He has a jacket.

“You’re more of an Alpha than I am sometimes.”

“I know.”

We trail off into silence. The morning is brewing, spilling a bright light over the sky. It’s slowly turning a baby blue with white, wispy clouds streaked across it. One thing I love about John is that, no matter how much we fight, the good times always outweigh the bad ones, if not in frequency, then in quality. I always wish to stay in these tender moments forever- though it is freezing cold, and I’d much rather be making up with my boyfriend in the cosy confines of our bed. While it is sometimes annoying to share a bed with Stu and John, it is great for cold nights. Nights such as this one, that is actually now morning. I keep forgetting. It feels more like a lazy evening.

John still isn’t ready to go inside, so he sits next to me and finishes his cigarette. Surprisingly, he realises that I’m cold and I watch him remove his leather jacket to place around my shoulders. As I pull the two ends of the open leather closer together, I look up at him, astonished.

“You…” I gasp. He shrugs as though he does this sort of thing all the time.

I can attest to that not being the case, hence my surprise.

“You’re such a girl, Macca. You fall for every charm in the book.”

“That’s because you never whip out the charm book. It’s always nice when you do.” As we sit there, my tired, heavy head finds rest on John’s shoulder. His arm finds its way around my back, squeezing me tight. I now don’t want to go to sleep, because I want to savour every second of this.

But then, I remember something. Just one last important thing before I dip into my ‘big picture’ mind that looks at things from afar, that’ll look at this situation as though it were a picture hanging in a gallery. It’s the way I appreciate things, by looking at them as though I were a observer, merely an audience member to an odd show.

“Promise me something, John.” I say. It sounds cliché, like I’m going to ask him to love me forever, or to have more moments like this.

“Depends what it is.” He replies.

“That you’ll say sorry to Stu and be nice to him until he leaves. Then you can swear about him and tell me how he abandoned you and how much you hate him, deal?”

If a little begrudgingly, since he doesn’t like to admit when he’s wrong, John mutters, “Deal.”


	21. John

“Have you got everything packed?”

Paul doesn’t half sound like a mother sometimes. Stu gives him a ‘seriously?’ look, then rolls his brown eyes and replies, “I think so. If not, you’ll send the stuff over?”

“Of course, we will.”

In front of me, Paul, George and Pete are all looking at Stu through wet eyes. They insist they haven’t cried, just welled up a bit. I condemn them all, declaring that they are sissies, the lot of them. By their side, The Hurricanes are biding him farewell too. Ringo is standing at the front of their band of 5, his head cocked to the side, a soft look on his face. They’ve all had their manly hugs with him, their handshakes and friendly nods. All that is left now is for him to properly abandon us.

But not without me making fun of him first. It’s my own goodbye. It’s unlike any other. I step forward. I place a hand on his back. I smile like a friend who is sorry to see him go- which I actually am, though I think I’ve finally accepted it graciously, with a little help from Paul telling me to stop being so fucking selfish.

“Well, can I just say that, before you came here, you were a pimply, ugly arse art student who probably couldn’t get a girl even by wearing a paper bag over your head.” Everyone laughs, including Stu. We’re on good terms again. I’m talking to him, he’s not upset with me. He apologised a million times for going, telling me that he didn’t want to, that, if I was really so heartbroken, he’d rather stay. By this time, though, I wasn’t mad at him for going. Of course, I let him grovel at my feet first before telling him that, because life is not fun if you don’t get a bit of self-importance from apologetic friends, right? (Ok, I’m actually a dick) “But since I’ve dragged you here, made you grow your hair long, put a pair of sunglasses on you and toughen you up with some hard love, you’re a real catch. Just promise me you won’t go back to your old ways without me.”

He licks his bottom lip as he rolls his eyes again, “I promise I won’t resort to my uncool self, even though I won’t have a great master like you to show me the way.”

“Well, you said it.”

Everyone laughs again. I pat Stu on the back very fondly. It’s time for him to go, for real now. He picks up his suitcase and puts on his signature sunglasses, giving a quick wink at me before his eyes are covered. He turns around and starts walking down the street and he doesn’t really look back once.

I wonder where he’ll be when we next meet. Maybe the Beatles will be the biggest band ever. Maybe his art will be shown in galleries all over the world.

Maybe I won’t see him again, but I wish him the best.

“You ok?” Paul asks me as we turn around, going back into the hotel. We have a show to prepare for tonight.

“Of course, I am.” I say, oddly chirpily.

Paul threads one of his arms around my waist. “Where are we going, Johnny?” He asks, which a little running joke of ours. Everyone behind us, the rest of the band and all, hear it too. They join in, in a messy chorus of “To the very top, Paulie!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny. I've not posted this for five minutes or so and I haven't felt comfortable since. I have to be writing. It's so funny how something like writing has literally become like an addiction for me.  
> I don't know why I felt the need to post this here, but I'm suffering from withdrawal symptoms and I'm waiting for this story to be printed out (because I'm proud of it, I wanted a hard copy) feeling all jittery, wondering what I'll write next.


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